


BOY WONDER

by YOURELIKECOCAINE



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (can you tell im all for haroline), Cissexism, F/M, Heteronormativity, Homophobia, M/M, Promise, Racism, and displays a perfect example of What Not to Do, and pushy, another warning for hints of previous sexual abuse, but i adore him, but things get better, huge warning for self harm, im a little mean to harry too, i’ve been watching too many k-dramas, liam’s super shallow, so dont take it personally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YOURELIKECOCAINE/pseuds/YOURELIKECOCAINE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Turns out Liam Payne's an Abercrombie & Fitch model. Which — ok, whatever. Zayn couldn't care less. Still a douche bag.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Due to a series of unfortunate events, Zayn Malik turns up riding out the rest of his university life in London. Due to another series of unfortunate events, he meets Liam Payne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> doezayn @ tumblr
> 
> i must admit -- this is a little lame and cliché and silly, but cheers to something a little different from my others (though some of my usual elements remain). so. yeah. everyone’s a little bit of a dick (okay, some more than others ((liam???))) in this fic, but i do it purely out of love. mostly. i adore my babies harry and zayn, but. sometimes adding a little dick in that personality makes for a good story. 
> 
> and i make no claims to being british, so my so-called britishisms may make me look like an idiot, so please feel free to point out anything that sounds way out of line. thanks again. (xx)
> 
> ((and, once more, this story was 98% written in my iphone notes, so any lack of indents or weird spaces between paragraphs is my fault from transferring this from iphone's notes --> google docs. sorryyyyyy.))

" _And that was our special guest Jasmine's nighttime house music mix, called Drowsy A.M's. Coming up on our commercial-less radio is a little something I made myself, full of some smooth jazz and a more pumping electro; 'hope you like it. This is your early morning radio host, Niall Horan."_

Zayn Malik slides his biology textbook off to the side of the flat's coffee table as quietly as he can, replacing it with a European History workbook instead. His body is jittery with coffee and lack of sleep, this being a good twenty-five hours without proper sleep, and he's only just begun his rough draft on Europe's impact on America's development.

 

As Niall's mix begins to pour gently from the little radio he's got sitting on the floor beside him, Zayn takes another gulp of his lukewarm coffee and rubs the exhaustion from his eyes, shaking his head until it's a little less hazy.

 

The mini lamp from his mum's bedroom — the only bedroom in the flat — is sitting beside his haphazardly-placed belongings, providing the only source of light in his study room/living room/bedroom. His makeshift bed is behind him, just a mess of blankets and old quilts and duvets and downy pillows, a few empty mugs have been blindly tossed beside his crossed legs, and a still, slumbering Waliyha lies on their recycled leather couch, her mouth open on a silent snore and one arm and leg dangling off. Her hair makes a halo of frizz around her gentle face.

 

The flat stinks of Chinese takeaway. Chinese takeaway and old coffee. Zayn's pretended not to mind it for the longest time, but the stench seems to only increase in strength when he's the sleepiest, and when the night is quiet with sleep. His mum hasn't cooked in ages, always gets him to bring Chinese takeaway on his way back from work for him and his sisters to eat — and Zayn's pretended not to mind. But eating out is dwindling on their practically nonexistent funds as it is, and takeaway gives Zayn awful diarrhea — and Zayn doesn't know how much longer he can act as if things are as normal as can be: him working, and her working, and takeaway for every dinner, and study sessions every night until he passes out on the coffee table.

 

He's grown. Restless. Antsy. Like the rotting floorboards that make up the mattress of his bed is hiding something life-changing, and all he can do is work and study and — and _wait_. Like he doesn't know what his body is waiting for, but it's waiting, and it's hoping for something promising.

 

Like the cold in his eyes and the constant fever in his bones is all just a horrible, prolonged nightmare he'll wake up from one day. He just has to keep still, and let it happen.

 

At four a.m., Zayn takes a break. He's halfway through his paper, and he doesn't know how he'll survive morning classes in two hours. But what he does know is that he has to take a shower and tidy himself up before he can even think of doing anything else, like napping. He's got so much to do, and only twenty-four hours to do it.

 

The bathroom is the only place that smells clean. His younger sisters' body gel leaves a girly, floral scent in the air; and the shower has a calming effect on him. Despite the knickers and other, well, womanly things left hanging on the edge of the tub and all across the tiled flooring, the bathroom is the tidiest place in the flat.

 

Zayn doesn't realize he's been letting water run down his bare back for nearly an hour and a half until he's sliding out and hears Niall's voice purr, _and it's currently thirty minutes to six; this is your early morning radio, signing off_.

 

•

 

Yaser is losing his eyesight. He's got his arm stretched out as far as it'll go, the package of biscuits in his calloused grip, and for the life of him he can't tilt it just enough for the small print to become clear.

 

Zayn's watching him from the kitchen barstool, phone rolling between his palms. And — and Yaser's losing his eyesight. It slips through his mind, pauses, then comes back to visit him once more, as he's lying on his father's living room couch, watching some old time Christmas movie in the dark.

 

Then the thought's so intense that it's, like, crushing his ribs into his lungs and making him short of breath. His brain feels woozy, and this time it's not even from the anger, from the frustration of having to call off work so that his mum could ship him off with his dad for the weekend (to spend 'quality time,' she argued); it's from the paralyzingly painful sadness of it all, the realization that his grudges and his bitterness and his loud, shuddering nights fall on deaf ears when forty turns to fifty turns to sixty. With that fading eyesight and that deteriorating brain and that cloudy perception of right and wrong (up and down - in and out), he can do nothing with his messy head but live with it. His moment has passed.

 

The woman on the screen's mouth is moving, her eyebrows knit together in faux annoyance. The room feels humid and stuffy in contrast to the dropping temperatures outside. Zayn suddenly feels ill.

 

The light in the foyer flicks on as Yaser walks from out of the kitchen, slipping his coat on as he drags himself to the front door. "I'm going to go get some takeaway," he says. "Is pizza fine?"

 

Zayn drags a palm down his face, rubs the emotion from his blurry eyes, downturned mouth. "Yeah," he finally answers. He ignores the unusual crack in his voice. "Anything's fine."

 

He remains still as ever while Yaser tugs on his shoes — hopes that maybe if he pretends he's dead long enough, he'll leave him alone. The dream falls flat when Yaser calls, again, "And, Zayn?"

 

Zayn shuts his eyes tightly. "Yeah?"

 

"We're going shopping in the morning. Be up by eight."

 

He finally exhales. "Yeah. Okay."

 

Yaser slips out, shuts the door loud behind him.

 

•

 

Liam's never doubted the fact that he's always had specific tastes. Because, _yeah_ , there _is_ a certain formula to the perfect martini, and, _yes_ , shrimp-Alfredo pasta _has_ to be cooked for a delicate time length before the shrimp loses the little bit of 'bite-back' that it normally has.

 

And he's had no qualms showing it. He's turned back dishes too many times to count on his fingers when out with his fellow employees (or, 'clique', the tabloids like to call it; Liam would digress) — and he's purposely turned his attention from girls at the venues too many times to count on his fingers when they didn't meet The Requirements.

 

Liam doesn't like to call himself picky. _Tasteful_ is the better word for it. But, "nope, you're a picky, spoiled little princess," Louis hisses in his ear when the fifth girl that approaches Liam that night stumbles off in her three-inch heels, defeated.

 

"'M not," Liam takes his time answering, before Sophia returns from the bar and hands him his shot. He backs it in one gulp, resists the urge to break his macho-man vibe he's got going on and cough. Or, worse, _cringe_. "You can't just shag _anyone_ , mate." Louis passes him a look over his disgustingly fruity drink. "It's a process."

 

The song in the venue slides into another one with a thicker bass, and members of his 'clique' — most of which he's hardly ever said a word to in his entire career of knowing of them — slide in and out of the VIP area of the venue. Liam and Louis stay planted in the red love seat, waitresses coming to and fro with platters of either more martinis or finger food — finger food Liam would rather avoid.

 

"A process," parrots Louis, incredulous. His eyebrows raise high up his forehead when he says, "You fuck girls with no arse or tits. Is that this _process_ you're talking about? Because it sounds like you'd rather fuck dudes."

 

Beside them, Sophia snorts.

 

Liam runs a hand through his short haircut, frowns. He doesn't expect Louis (or Sophia, for that matter) to understand — he just wishes they wouldn't meddle. Really, he wishes they'd just get off it already.

 

It's not like Liam's _changed_. He's been like this since he first got signed with Abercrombie  & Fitch and had the privilege of meeting Louis Tomlinson & co. All the fame and recognition has done is broaden the playing field, allowing girls of all heights, weight, and hip size/waist size/bust size to recognize his growing fame; which, in turn, has lead to a lot of messy rejections.

 

He remembers his first girlfriend — she was only an inch shorter than him, with jutting collarbones, sunken cheeks, and legs that looked like they could snap in half if she bent the wrong way. And it was nice. _She_ was nice. He called her babe instead of Penelope, held her up in his arms like she was lightweight — and he felt strong. Heroic. Like Penelope couldn't protect herself if he wasn't there to wrap his calloused fingers around her twig wrists.

 

Liam's following girlfriends were _all_ to be remembered, really. Lottie had a waist like the slope of a coke bottle, but tossed up her food in the washroom when she was sure no one was watching; Kaitlin was on the school's volleyball team, had hair down to her tiny bum and breasts small enough to hide under his old tee shirts; Olivia's hipbones were sharp enough to kill, left bruises in his sides when she held him tight enough, long enough; and Beatrice was like absolute _magic_ in bed, her body long and frail and easy to lift when he wanted to fuck into her against her baby blue bedroom wall.

 

He likes to think every other bloke just has awful taste. If you're going to settle, why settle for shit? Liam repeats this in his head over and over, hoping it would become loud and constant enough to drown out Louis' second disapproving rant of the night.

 

"It's okay to pull a girl with _at least_ ten percent body fat, Liam," Louis' on to saying. His eyes follow a group of women that look at least in their mid-twenties, their dresses tight and short. "Maybe you should go for one with twenty five percent body fat, just to negate all the two-percenters."

 

"Two percenters?" Liam asks. "Are they percentages now?"

 

Sophia suddenly stands up when two men enter the VIP section in dress shirts and matching slacks. "As much as I love hearing you two chat about body fat," she starts, gaze already trained across the venue. "I've got to meet and greet to stay on top. Cheers."

 

"Sure," Liam watches her go and kiss both guys on their cheeks. He sits his empty shot glass on the table ahead of him, stands up. "I should probably get going too. I've got things to do tomorrow, and I need my beauty sleep to do 'em."

 

Louis rolls his eyes, but squishes himself up against the seat anyway to let Liam slide through. "Of course you'll ditch me tonight of all nights," he calls to him with a pout. "When you know I need a wingman to help me at the after party."

 

Liam glances over his shoulder at him. Blinks. "Louis. You don't need a wingman. You're, like, practically your _own_ wingman."

 

Louis doesn't deny this. "See you next weekend, Li. Don't forget our plans. I'll be phoning you every hour of the hour until you pick up."

 

"Sure. Later."

 

"Later."

 

Liam, only to be polite, says his brief goodbyes to the other models, then eases his way out of VIP, across the dance floor, and straight out into the bitter cold. An employee chases him down the sidewalk with his leather coat, and Liam thanks the guy before slipping it on over his bare arms.

 

Two blocks down the road, he realizes he was supposed to catch a van back to his London flat instead of wandering the night's city streets. But, honestly, he doesn't want to retire just yet — he just didn't want to hear anybody's unsolicited opinions anymore. And he's been to that same venue several times in his career; there's nothing fresh or magical about VIP or being served free finger food on a silver platter anymore. It's been almost two years already.

 

Thinking this way makes Liam feel, well, selfish. He's never prided himself on being selfish — or picky — but everyone's (the same everyone that Liam told himself he never cared about in the first place) snide remarks about his selfishness, pickiness, always seems to dig right under his skin when there's no one there to witness his shame.

 

But — but why should he be made to feel ashamed about having preferences? Why is it his fault that he has his own opinions on certain things, just like fucking everyone else? Fuck them. This is a minor issue when there's kids in sub saharan Africa starving to death. Donate to Red Cross, for fucks sake.

 

Before he knows it, Liam ends up at a 24-hour convenience store, with its blindingly bright lights and colorful interior. His anger dwindles for a moment as he glances up at the neon OPEN sign above the automatic glass doors. There's one employee inside, standing idly behind the cashier.

 

Well. Liam _can_ use a diet pop. Maybe a little bag of crisps. He steps around the tables set outside, waits for the automatic doors to glide open before he goes through.

 

"Welcome," the cashier starts to say, before she raises her gaze to him and nearly chokes on her saliva.

 

Her eyes are bugged out as Liam fixes his jacket and smiles a quick greeting. He turns down the snacks aisle before she can muster up anything else.

 

He's nearly forgotten that his face is currently on the side of nearly every bus in the city. He doesn't quite understand how he can forget something as major as that, yet. But. Well. He doesn't quite understand anything ever since he first got signed.

 

He can feel her still staring as he eyes the selection. Sweet & Sour? No. Barbecue? Not today. Lime? Ew, what the fuck? He settles on boring ol' vinegar as a last minute choice, then slides to the back to grab himself a diet Pepsi.

 

The cashier is still looking two seconds away from shitting her uniform pants when he walks back up. Only difference now is that there are three teenage girls in their winter coats standing outside, giggling with one another as they snap pictures with their camera phones.

 

Liam decides to entertain them, smiling for a few before he has the antsy cashier ring up his purchases. "Is that all, sir?" she asks when the price flashes. He shakes his head no, hands her the correct amount, and grabs his things on the way out.

 

"Liam!" one of the girls in a distasteful pink coat shouts as soon as he gets outside. "I love you!"

 

He takes his hand out of his pocket to wave with his free arm. "Love you, too."

 

The group grows courageous, approaching him when he's nearly turned down the street. "Can we get a picture?" another asks, the excitement turning her voice squeaky.

 

Okay. Trapped. Hiding the defeated huff of his breath, he turns to face them and tries his best at a polite smile. "Sure, loves. C'mere."

 

Just as Pink Coat glides under his arm with her camera phone in hand, Liam notices that one of the outdoor tables in front of the convenience store is suddenly occupied. The person, he sees, has their head down on top of it, cheek first. It's a mess of jet black hair and thinly-clad shoulder blades.

 

He takes photos with each girl, pulling a new face for every one. He goes from eyebrows narrowed, jaw-tight 'model' stare to cross-eyed, tongue-out 'goofy' grin. The girls squeal their thanks and give him hugs before they're off, stumbling down the sidewalk. The bloke at the table shifts.

 

Liam waits until the only ones on the road is Weirdo Table Dude and him — opens his bag of crisps and shoves some in his mouth as he contemplates his next choice of action.

 

And the choice should be easy. The obvious one is to, really, turn around and go back to his flat to watch himself some good television until he passes out, empty bag of crisps in hand. It sounds the best, actually — it's fucking _freezing_ out here, and he'd _really_ rather not stand out here any longer.

 

But then the guy lifts his head for a few seconds. And — and, what the actual _fuck_? What do they put in the water in fucking London, because Weird Table Dude's sleepy, supposed-to-be-fucked-up face is two _times_ more gorgeous than the bird who tried to slip herself onto his lap back at the venue. More gorgeous than _any_ of the girls who tried to chat him up tonight.

 

(Or _ever_. It’s, like, his breath has been literally taken away. And imagine if this bloke _actually_ tried to impress? Good _god_.)

 

Stunned into rigid silence, Liam instantly wonders if the guy sees him before his head slumps back down onto the table.

 

Probably not, though, guessing by how (gorgeous) WTD shifts back into his previous position and doesn't move again.

 

Guess it's time to make himself known (Just out of curiosity. Pure curiosity. That's all). Liam takes a few steps towards the table with another handful of vinegar crisps in his hand to see if WTD would hear and look up.

 

No such luck.

 

Liam lets a taxi cab drive by, the rolling of its wheels temporarily drowning out the shitty convenience store music playing through the outdoor stereos, before he completely approaches the table and sits down.

 

The only noise now is the crunching of crisps and some mainstream electro song. The boy with the pretty mouth and eyelashes remains still, his cheek still pressed up against the table.

 

"A little unsanitary," starts Liam, through a full mouth. "don't you think? Mate?"

 

The guy remains quiet. Either he didn't hear him because he's fallen into deep sleep within two minutes — or he's ignoring him. The answer seems obvious.

 

Liam leans further over the table. "A little unsanitary," he repeats a little louder. "don't you think?"

 

Unsanitary Weird Table Dude's leg twitches. Liam twists his head to look into his face, only to find the guy's eyes are shut tightly, eyebrows furrowed. Shit head's definitely awake.

 

"Okay," he sighs, leans back in his chair. "it's fine if you ignore me. I'll just keep talking until —"

 

A loud, obnoxious ringing coming from Rude Unsanitary Weird Table Dude's jeans pocket startles his next words away from him. Liam watches, eyebrows raised in a mix between shock and victory, as the bloke's head carefully — _carefully_ — lifts. His expression can be described as none other than Defeated  & Disappointed.

 

Liam tries to make eye contact as the weirdo tugs his cell out of his pocket, glances at the caller ID before he answers it. "Yaser."

 

He continues to avoid eye contact as he listens to the voice on the other end. He frowns. "No. No. Yeah — yeah, I got it." He frown deepens. "You can eat all the pizza if you want. I don't care. No. No — 'm not hungry. _Eat_ it then." He suddenly stands up; Liam's eyes follow him. He huffs. "I'll talk to you when I get back, yeah? Bye. _Bye_."

 

Weirdo scuttles off before he closes his cell, and Liam turns in his seat to watch him go. "Wait," he calls out. Weirdo doesn't stop. "Wait! Where's your coat? You must be cold!"

 

The guy looks over his shoulder, as he power walks away, with just enough time to flip Liam the middle finger, shout back a disgustingly sarcastic, "Thanks dad!" — and disappear 'round the corner. Quickly.

 

Liam stares at the corner, shocked silent, for what feels like ten minutes before he breaks out in a scoff and shakes his head, turning away.

 

Fucking (cute as hell) weirdos.

 

•

 

Safaa would've appreciated being here more than Zayn ever could. Safaa would've been ecstatic to spend even _one hour_ with the dad she's never had the privilege of properly meeting after birth.

 

But, alas, here Zayn is, sitting in bitter silence in the passenger seat of Yaser's beat up van, pretending that he's alright with having only two hours of sleep before being shrugged awake at eight in the fucking morning.

 

"Groceries for your mum," says Yaser, as he pulls up at a stop light. "We need to get some — personal — things for your sisters, too."

 

Zayn musters a weak nod before his forehead's pressed against the window and his eyes slip closed. The car jerks and swings almost every few damn seconds, and Zayn's reminded why he'll never be a city boy for as long as he lives. This never happens back in Bradford. He's never had to avoid awkward conversations with creepy, absolute strangers back in Bradford.

 

He's never had to put up with, well, _a lot_ of shit back in Bradford.

 

They drive into a parking spot in front of the supermarket. Zayn tries to look as disinterested as possible when he slides out of the car and listens to Yaser's instructions about what to purchase and where to find it.

 

"We'll be dropping these off at your mum's flat later this evening," he explains. "So let's be quick about it."

 

Zayn's nodding and turning around with his mental to-do list before he pauses — _what_? — turns back around to face Yaser. "Wait. _We_? You're not dropping me off, too?"

 

When Yaser's face falls, grave and serious, Zayn's heart stutters and tightens under the weight of his ribs. "You're," Yaser begins, as gently as he can. "going to be living here awhile. Your mum's rules."

 

Then.

 

What?

 

No.

 

No. No, no, no, no, no, no — fucking _no_. Zayn can hear how weak his voice sounds when he parrots, "My mum's rules?"

 

Yaser rubs at his face like he's suddenly ten times more exhausted than he was just a few seconds ago. "She's ... having a tough time right now — hopes you understand. Says she knows you will."

 

Zayn's not hearing anymore. He immediately fumbles through his coat pocket until he's got his cell in hand, dials his mum's number so fast it nearly slips out of his clammy grip. Yaser's going on to saying something, but Zayn's already turning away and stumbling off, towards the side of the building.

 

He has to call four ( _fucking_ ) times before she picks up. "My god," she hisses. "I'm a little busy right now, Zayn. Okay?"

 

"Mum," he croaks. His voice is cracking with tears, and his throat is tight, but he could care fucking less right now. There's too much panic coursing through him to slow down. "You're leaving me here? With him?"

 

Pause. Longer pause. Then, " _Lord_ , Zayn, he's your father, not ' _him_ '."

 

"Mum. Mum, _please_ don't. _Please_. I," he swallows thickly. "I've been helping out, haven't I? I've kept up three jobs for months now. I've — I've given you all my paychecks, even. _Mum_ —"

 

"Zayn," she coos. "That's not it. You know that's not it, don't you, love?" There's some fumbling on the other line as she relocates before she whispers to him, "I appreciate all your help. I really do. But, thing is, Zayn, I don't _want_ you to help."

 

He's trying, honestly trying, but. Too late. Zayn's crying now, before he can stop himself — sobbing, really.

 

Because, this is what it feels like to be abandoned for the second time. Like, it's seems as if the first time wasn't enough; the first time is never enough. It's got to happen again, and again, and maybe even four or five more times before the point gets across that Zayn's everywhere and nowhere, wedged tight between multiple worlds that keep pushing him in opposite directions. Nobody wants him. Nobody _needs_ him.

 

Oh — god. Ouch. This realization is too painful to bare.

 

He slumps down against the wall until his bum's planted on the ground; his knees feel weak. "Help your father for now," she's telling him, when his hearing comes back in. "Lord knows he needs it. He needs _you_ , love. He —"

 

Zayn hangs up.

 

•

 

_Welcome to early morning radio; I'm Niall Horan, your host, signing in._

 

Zayn stirs. The floor feels nice against his flushed skin.

 

 _The time is two a.m., and to start off this early morning radio we've got some nice, calming mixes to provide a great start to your morning_.

 

His vision goes in and out before he can see the bottom of the loo, the fluffy little bathroom rug with its tufts of pink and blue. Zayn reaches out to touch it, feel the warmth beneath the palm of his hand before he's feeling the throbbing pain of it all, too.

 

"Fuck," Zayn groans. His voice sounds loud in the quiet little washroom. As a house mix full of chirping birds and rainforest sounds surface, his head begins to spin. " _Fuck_."

 

He rolls his heavy, lead-like body onto its side before he drags his head forwards, looks down at himself. And — he shouldn't be surprised to see blood. But he still is. His night shirt's ruined with it, as are his briefs, with little red splotches down the legs. Oh.

 

"Fuck," he says again, this time to his mangled arm. Through the dried blood, the current fresh stream running down his wrist and onto the floor, and the otherwise mess of himself, there's the new plea — _KILL ME_ — dug down his forearm, sideways, and in all-caps. Approximately seventy-two font, Zayn would sadistically guesstimate. Twice the size of the gloriously cliche _DIE_ on his inner thigh.

 

 _Chirp, chirp, chirp_.

 

He's lost too much blood. He must've passed out a good ten minutes ago, he thinks through the dizzying feeling in his head. He wonders if he'll die soon, if he doesn't do anything about it.

 

 _Chirp, chirp._ A monkey calls out through the synchronized beat of the mix.

 

Zayn contemplates, for a split second, not doing anything. Just lying there and letting his vision fade back out. But — no. If Yaser, by any wild chance, barges in here and catches him just in the nick of time to save him, he'll never hear the fucking end of it. Ever.

 

 _Get up_. He reaches out with his clean arm, grips the edge of the loo. With a sudden burst of strength, he drags himself up and against it, gasps when another shock of unrelenting pain slices through him.

 

"Oh, god," Zayn says to himself. His laugh is soft and incredulous. "I'm such a fucking idiot." He's only just woken up and he feels his body's already failing on him. He's got to move quick.

 

Zayn tackles his wildly bleeding arm first, gets it under the running bathtub water and holds a towel to it, applying as much pressure as he can muster. It stings. Fucking burns. But the worst of it's already passed, and he's sure nothing else can hurt him anymore than it already has.

 

The bandages from the last time he's been here — it was in the living room that time, when Waliyha was fast asleep curled up into him, for fucks sake — is found in the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink. Zayn has to drag himself away from the red-stained tub, when the wound has temporarily ceased its bleeding, and stammer across the bathroom and the mess he's created to get there.

 

Niall's mix is nearly halfway done. The chirps and monkey hoots have reduced into just calm sounds of rushing river water, wind rustling the imaginary trees. Otherwise, everything is dead silent in the flat.

 

It's almost three a.m. when Zayn gets the bandage wrapped around his forearm; he doesn't know how much longer he can last before he passes out again.

 

And Zayn feels fifty pounds lighter. He's moving too quickly for his muscles to process it, adamantly sloshing up the pool of blood from the floor and his feet. He gets the bathtub rushing and washes all the red out — and, fuck. He can't believe this anymore. He can't believe he's still in this place, wedged between these worlds, no matter how many times he's told himself he won't come back.

 

Zayn's come back every time. Every _fucking_ time.

 

The trash is stuffed and emptied with bloodied paper towels; and before he knows it: _it's currently thirty minutes to six; this is your early morning radio, signing off._

 

•

 

That final night, Safaa was a bubbly little girl, tucking herself under his arm during movie night and giggling at the jokes she didn't understand, but wanted to.

 

The following morning, Safaa was a sobbing young woman, red trickling down between her thighs and a shiver down her spine at the phenomenon she didn't understand, and never wanted to.

 

She needed Yaser then, more than ever. She needed him, because explanations about growing up were incomplete without the anchor that kept her stable; he could've kept her stable. Zayn knew he could never be Yaser's replacement.

 

And now, as Zayn sits in the old, beat up van, awaiting Yaser's reappearance after dropping the /personal/ things off at his mum's little flat, he wonders, gravely, who'll be Safaa's anchor when the nights are crawling with monsters and fears and not even Zayn can be the temporary sedation.

 

Now, Safaa only has herself.

 

"Your mum wanted to see you," starts Yaser, as he slides into the driver's seat and slams the door. "Last chance to go in and see her again?"

 

Zayn stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, slides further down into his seat.

 

"Not even going to get the rest of your stuff?" Yaser tries. "You've got to return those textbooks, yeah? Gonna be transferring to the uni near me in a bit."

 

His response is to look out the window and glare at the grass.

 

Yaser lets him contemplate it for a few quiet seconds before he grumbles, "Alright, well," and starts the car. Zayn remains one minute away from slamming his knuckles into something (preferably his biological father's nose) for the entire ride back.

 

•

 

"Got the engine fixed up for you and everything," Liam's most loyal mechanic gushes, as his large, calloused hands pat the leather seat of the motorcycle.

 

Liam takes a long, approving walk around the perimeter of where the motor bike is displayed in the motorcycle shop, its finish red and glossy. He keeps his fingers balled up around his debit card in his leather jacket pockets as he nods and whistles. "Looks great, Ant. Twice as good as the last time I saw her."

 

The other employees in the shop are idling around near the back, closest to the cashier and some lounge chairs, eyeing the finished motorcycle and nodding along like bobble heads. "Liam Payne again?" one asks as they approach the others.

 

Liam's been here way more than several times. When he first came across this London spot for hot heads with fast-paced lifestyles, he'd been suggested to come visit Ant the Mechanic at this location by an acquaintance with too much insight about the lavish life: Mr. Harry Styles.

 

And that was a good year ago. Now, Liam's entrusted Ant with all his motor vehicles, handing out praise for every practically perfect job done. He's shocked to say that he's never been let down; and this new baby that's soon to go into his collection is no different.

 

"So," he starts finally, after looping around the display one more time. "can I get the handles changed out, too? Add some red flames to the ends, maybe?" He looks at Ant, grimaces when he gets a none-too-positive look. "Too gaudy, maybe? Yeah. Okay — too gaudy."

 

"It's already going to be the best model on the road," Ant explains. He rubs his oil-stained hands onto the front of his ANT'S MOTORS jumper, goes on to say, "Completely custom-made, sleek, but eye-catching: it's like a mechanical Liam Payne. It's great the way it is."

 

Well. Liam can't argue with that. "Okay," he says. "I think. Yeah. I'll take it."

 

He starts tugging his Visa debit card out of his leather jacket pocket when the front door to Ant's Motors rings, and somebody glides in. "Thank _god_ ," an employee from the back sighs. "The pizza's here. I'm _starving_."

 

The pizza boy walks past Liam and Ant on his way through to the other mechanics, says boredly, "Two large pizzas: one pepperoni, one cheese." There's some quiet words spoken before he says, "That'll be nine pounds."

 

Liam turns away from Ant, curious, while the correct amount of money is slapped into Pizza Boy's palm and two boxes of pizza is handed off. And, as the guy begins to walk away and back towards the front door of the shop, he glances up just in time to look Liam in the face, and —

 

Holy. _Shit_.

 

"Unsanitary table dude!" gasps Liam, before he can stop himself. Everyone looks up from what they were doing as Unsanitary Table Dude stares at Liam like a deer in headlights. Liam stabs the air with his index finger, his other fingers wrapped around the debit card. "I didn't think I'd see your face again. It's been almost two weeks!"

 

His eyes fall to Unsanitary Table Dude's mustard yellow uniform shirt before he has a chance to respond. "So your name's Zayn ... Malik? _Zayn Malik_? Weird."

 

The initial shock quickly dissipates and morphs into anger and disgust as Liam frowns at Zayn's name tag. "May I help you?"

 

"You know each other?" Ant peeps up from the other side of the motorcycle. "Unsanitary Table Dude?" he asks apprehensively, like he doesn't know if he should hear this story or not.

 

"Yeah," Liam turns to look at Ant excitedly. "He's the bloke who flipped me the bird when I asked him if he was cold. 'E was taking a nap on public tables."

 

Zayn's face flushes an incriminating red at this, when Ant snorts. "Well, I've got to work. So. Lovely reunion, and goodbye." He tries to side-step Liam, only for the taller boy to think fast and step back into his way. Zayn blinks, confused and slightly annoyed, up at him. "What?"

 

"I was trying to have a conversation with you back then, you know?" Liam tells him with faux-sadness. "And you just went on and ignored me. Wasn't very nice."

 

Zayn just blinks slowly at him, unfazed.

 

"And," Liam goes on to say. "I was just concerned, yeah? You only had a thin little shirt on in the dead of winter, and you looked so skinny. I thought you were homeless."

 

"Nope," says Zayn. "Not homeless. So I'll be on my way, then." He takes a step to the left, frowns when Liam leans in his way again. "What do you want from me?" he huffs. "I have to work for a living."

 

"I'll be in the back if you need me," Ant answers, is already walking to the cash register as if he knows he won't get a response.

 

"M'name's Liam," Liam greets with a smile in his voice, extending a hand for a shake. "Liam Payne. P-A-Y—"

 

"Don't care," Zayn sighs. He eyeballs Liam's hand carefully, then goes to walk away again. "I've got to go, okay? Nice meeting you again and all, but I've got to be back in the shop in five minutes before my manager's wondering where I am. Cheers."

 

Liam turns around to see him off. Zayn's got his hand on the front door when Liam calls out, "So you work at Mr. Italy Pizzeria, then? Good to know." He can't stop from grinning, no matter how hard he bites the inside of his cheek, when Zayn falters to look back at him, worried.

 

"Don't follow me," Zayn finally says, slowly. "Please."

 

"And now you've decided you're going to be polite?" Liam asks playfully, as he turns away and looks towards the direction of his new, custom-made motorcycle. "Maybe I'll see you another time. Zayn Malik."

 

Zayn hesitates for a few more terrifying seconds before he shoves his way out the door and hurries down the street. Liam pretends not to watch until the moment he can no longer see the mustard yellow tee from the corner of his eye.

 

•

 

Well. Zayn at least knows that the wound under the arm bandages is gonna scar. Bad. It hasn't particularly gotten better since that night; if he moves a certain way (A.K.A, if he moves his arm while sweeping at his new part-time job, or even if he's just lying, idle, on the couch, wishing Yaser would fucking go to bed already) it starts staining the bandages red all the way through, forcing an emergency re-wrap in his (new) bedroom, or pizzeria public bathroom stalls.

 

Yaser never bothers to ask about it. Nor does his manager, Robbie, or any of the other employees. But the customers, by contrast, do. And often.

 

It's a late Friday evening at the store when Zayn's working the cash register; his eyelids feel heavy, and his wound is throbbing, as usual, when a mother of twins is at the counter, eyeing his damaged arm. "Well," she starts. "what happened there, I wonder?"

 

Zayn's fellow employee, Perrie, snorts from the nearby table she's wiping. It's only been one good week since he'd started working here, but she knows the deal by now.

 

"Bike accident," he answers for the hundredth time that shift. The woman's face falls in horror. "Don't worry. It wasn't that serious."

 

The woman remains slightly unconvinced, but lets it slip by. "Okay," she says slowly. "that's good, then." When one of the twins make a whingy sound and bobs around in their little booties, she asks, "How long does it take to cook a pizza, exactly?"

 

"Another ten minutes, ma'am," Zayn closes the register after counting the proper cash and putting it away. "Please wait over by the pick-up station."

 

The next hour is lazy and bleak. It's dark outside, save for the lamp posts and other random food stores across the street; cars drive down the road often, and people walk up and down the sidewalk, but the pizzeria remains pretty much unoccupied. Zayn gets sat by one of the table's chairs near the cash register. Perrie slips down beside him, mop in hand.

 

"If you're bored," she says, handing him a magazine. "just read, or something. We're closing up in another hour." Zayn hesitantly picks it up as she gets back to her feet. Smiling softly, she tells him, "And — sorry."

 

Zayn looks up at her, suspicious. "About what?"

 

Perrie sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, shrugs. "About everyone. Asking." He glances down at his bandaged arm when she says, "I never asked. Thought it was too personal, maybe?"

 

"Not really."

 

"The way you tell everyone a different answer, sounds like it's a little too personal."

 

Zayn tries to steady his erratic breathing, as Perrie walks off and continues to mop by the cup dispensers. It's like he's forgotten that Perrie's been around every time an annoyingly curious customer asks him what had happened; he'd been too busy trying to think of something new to say that he didn't realize she could've easily put two and two together.

 

And, it's not personal. He means, not _that_ personal. He doesn't have any secrets that'll have him burst into tears just at the first mention of it. He doesn't _think_ so, at least.

 

But, it's not like he's ever told anybody about the things he's been through ( _things he's been through_ — sounds so serious when put that way, when it's really not), either. His mum's always been too busy and too stressed as it is; and his sisters are definitely not an option, considering he'd always been the one to keep them from turning in the wrong direction: in _his_ direction.

 

He's. He's tired. Exhausted, really. It's been years, and he's slept hundreds of nights — and he wakes up the following day feeling exactly the same: restless. Terrified. Worried that the only thing he'd accomplish in the next ten years is a body full of scars and a mind numb with adderall.

 

Zayn doesn't realize that time's been moving forward without him until he looks up from the table — and there's a Liam Payne looking back at him. His black pea coat looks expensive, its layered pockets filled with balled fists.

 

"Zayn Malik."

 

Blink. Blink. Zayn's face falls into a scowl, and he subsequently stands. "Okay, serious question," he lowers his voice when he catches Perrie looking. "What do you want?"

 

Liam sits back in his seat as he contemplates this. Rolling his eyes from the roof to Zayn's face, he smirks and says, "An apology."

 

Zayn slides his chair back under the table. "Okay. Fair enough. But _why_? Last time I checked, you were the one harassing _me_ that night."

 

Liam shakes his head. "No — not for that." He pauses. "I mean, yeah, kinda for that, but. But for something else, now."

 

Zayn narrows his eyes at him, cocks his head to the side. "What?" He glances at a nosy fucking Perrie before sighing with finality. "Look, Liam. I don't have time to play cat and mouse with you. I don't know what I'm apologizing for, nor do I even care, but please, for the love of god, leave me alo —"

 

Liam takes a hand out of his coat to shove the magazine over towards Zayn, face suddenly unreadable. Zayn falters, blinks, hesitates before he looks down at the back cover of the magazine — and comes face to face with a smaller, shirtless Liam Payne, his scruffy face scrunched up in an odd mix between a heavy stare and a sly smile, one of his arms snaked around a brunette's tiny waist while the other fingers the belt loops of his jeans. _Abercrombie & Fitch_, it says in space-y letters above them.

 

So. Turns out Liam Payne's an Abercrombie & Fitch model. Which — ok, whatever. Zayn couldn't care less. Still a douche bag. A slimy, creepy, stalker-ish douche bag with trouble being told _go away_ and _leave me alone_.

 

But. Really. What model doesn't have trouble being told no?

 

Zayn feigns disinterest. "Am I supposed to suck your dick now?"

 

"Would you?" Liam lights up.

 

"Goodbye." Zayn snatches the magazine and storms off, tossing it in the trash on his way back to the cash register — just for good measure, and a hefty reminder that he Does Not Give a Shit.

 

Liam gets up and turns to face him at the register. "Zayn Malik —" he starts.

 

"Stop calling me by my name," Zayn, fingers antsy, wipes down the area around him just to keep himself busy. "You don't even _know_ me." He finally gathers the strength to glare straight into Liam's smug fucking face. "Matter of fact: buy something or leave, okay?"

 

Perrie slows down her mopping job, looks between each tense face confusedly. "I don't mean to interrupt, but. Is this man bothering you, Zayn?"

 

"Yes," Zayn says.

 

"No," Liam answers at the same time. "Not bothering at all. Just. Visiting." He flashes Perrie an amiable smile as he points between Zayn and him. "We've met, before. Twice before, actually. He's a difficult one, but I'm hoping for an apology." Her confused stare deepens. "Long story."

 

Zayn huffs at him. "Liam —"

 

"See? We're even on a first name basis."

 

"What else should I call you, if not your first name? Arsehole? Because that seems pretty fitting."

 

Liam shrugs, but answers quickly, as if rehearsed, "Everyone calls me Mr. Payne. Kind of a big deal around here."

 

Perrie gapes. Tossing the mop to the ground with a clatter, she gasps, "Oh my god, you're Liam Payne? _Liam Payne_?" She turns to gape at a defeated-looking Zayn next. " _Zayn_? You know _Liam Payn_ e?"

 

He can't believe this. He absolutely cannot believe this. The night he ditched Liam in front of the convenience store, he thought it'd be the last of him. No more creepy blokes trying to ruffle his feathers — or _whatever_ the fuck he was doing — for the rest of his unwanted stay in London. Of course (and _as usual_ ), he's not only proven incorrect, but must suffer through the rest of his shift as Perrie gawks and fawns over Liam, and Liam sucks up all the attention until his head is so huge it may explode at any moment.

 

This is the beautiful future Zayn must endure in his new, temporary (read: _temporary_ ) place of residence. His exhaustion intensifies ten fold just at the thought of it: avoiding Liam Payne, avoiding Yaser, ignoring Perrie's soon-to-occur insistent questions about his 'relationship' with Liam Payne — and trying not to just grab the kitchen knife, dig too deep into his wrist, and end it all.

 

Perrie's just finished taking pictures with the arsehole by the time Zayn's trying to slip into the back and melt into the ground. No such luck.

 

"Wait," Liam calls out. He leans over the counter, taps his fingers against the top of it. "Pizza boy, wait! I've got an order."

 

Zayn already has his palm pressed against the employee's only door. Grumbling to himself, he twists his head around to glower at Liam. "Shouldn't models be watching their figure? Why do you want pizza?"

 

Liam gives him a faux offended look, slapping a hand to his chest. "Is the pizza boy denying a customer their right to order? Should I file a complaint against Zayn Malik?"

 

Fuck him. Literal _fuck_ him. Zayn, sighing dramatically, ambles back up to the cash register and gives him an annoyed attempt at looking pleasant. "Okay, sir, what would you like to order? And I'm afraid we don't serve diet pizzas."

 

Liam looks over at Perrie, of whom is continuing to watch them while doing a mediocre clean-up of the customer station. He smiles back at Zayn, lowers his voice when he answers, "I want a diet Pepsi, with a side of Zayn Malik's phone number?"

 

Zayn rings up a diet Pepsi as if he's heard nothing else, then calls to Perrie, "Finish ringing him up, will you? My shift ends in ten minutes, so I'm getting off early." He grabs his coat from under the counter and shrugs it on, Liam watching in surprise. "Don't follow me," Zayn tells him darkly. "I swear to god — don't follow me, Liam Payne."

 

Liam stands, idle, by the counter while Perrie obediently goes to collect the money. "Is that it, then? No number? I haven't even a clue what I've done to upset you."

 

"Thinking you had a chance," Zayn says without looking back. He powers quickly to the front doors. "That's what you did to upset me. Now sod off."

 

The door swings open, bringing in a gust of cold air, then closes.

 

"That'll be one pound," comes Perrie's weak voice, but Liam remains turned towards the front, watching Zayn storm off and turn down the street for the third time since they've met.

 

•

 

Zayn eats breakfast alone. Which, he doesn't mind. Not at all. What he _does_ mind, though, is having to try to enjoy his sunny side up omelette while the television displays HD shots of Liam Fucking Payne walking out of a London flat, hand in hand with a blonde girl, her head ducked and one hand shielding her face.

 

And, this isn't what he had planned for his lovely, quiet little morning. He was ( _was_ ) resigned to forgetting Liam Payne ever existed, and that him and his antics will never show up in his life again. He doesn't know why he acts like he's certain about anything in his life anymore; because there Liam is, on his television screen, hand in hand with some girl he must've found sometime after Zayn gave him a fast and ruthless rejection.

 

It's no surprise to Zayn that he bounced back so quick after the fact. Those types of guys are never serious about anything but where they're sticking their dick next, anyway.

 

Zayn takes a bite so harsh he catches his bottom lip, hisses at the pain and taste of blood in his mouth. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Why is he even getting mad at this? Why does it matter to him that Liam's moved on on the same night he was ditched? Zayn should feel _glad_ Liam's averted his attention.

 

Guys like that don't settle for blokes. They fuck anything that moves, pretty much. Zayn just happened (happens?) to be his next target for a messy shag and a broken heart. No. Zayn will _never_ give him that satisfaction. _Ever_.

 

Yaser slides out of his bedroom just then in his work uniform, eyes red from lack of sleep. There are several (too many) empty bottles of beer sitting in the recycling bin, Zayn had noticed when he first came into the kitchen. Must've been a late night.

 

Not that he cares, though.

 

"I'll be back by nine," explains Yaser, as he tugs on his work shoes. "Tomorrow I'll look into transferring you to the London uni, okay?"

 

Zayn chews in response. He ignores the throbbing pain in his mouth — and in his arm.

 

"Okay," Yaser breathes, mostly to himself. "Bye." He leaves before Zayn has a chance to respond, as if he wanted to.

 

By the time the segment about Liam Payne is over, Zayn makes his way into the washroom to unwrap and check up on his wound, like clockwork. It still looks pretty fucking bad, all red and scarred, but it finally stopped bleeding, and the words _KILL ME_ are stark against his pale arm. He doesn't know how to feel, as he stares at it. He almost wants to make it bleed again — punishment for being a spoiled little brat and an obvious attention-seeker, walking around with his bloodied bandages all out in the open. He doesn't know who he hates more anymore.

 

Once he gets it re-wrapped and settles back on the couch, his chest feels heavy and his eyes burn. He doesn't remember the last time anyone's shown him any attention like that, where Liam's considered. Sixth form has been an entirely big blur, full of studying, pretending to be deaf when students snickered, and pretending to seem content when his English instructor asked him, for the twentieth time, if he was okay with sitting in the classroom during lunch. Definitely no romance ensued then, when he could barely even speak one word to a girl without vomiting on his own shoes.

 

(Zayn wants to act as if those days were all just a bad dream. He doesn't know how else to cope with having no childhood friends to call when he's feeling particularly lonely, or no great memories to look back on when the future seems bleak. And he's lonely — and his future feels bleak — everyday.)

 

Liam was the only one outside of his family to pursue Zayn, no matter how creepy and pushy and obvious his vile intentions are. Were. That doesn't matter, though, because Zayn's personality is shitty, and he only knows how to push people away. He thinks on it, and he's realized that he hadn't learned how to accept someone completely without self-destructing.

 

Zayn doesn't know how to keep relationships. He barely even knows how to live.

 

And, for as far back as he can recollect, this has been his life.

 

•

 

"A _bloke_? Liam — a _dude_?" Louis asks, so shocked out of his mind that his eyes are bugging out. He pulls his feet up on his living room couch, takes a swig of his beer before he asks, incredulous, "what? Is he ninety pounds? Is your only criteria their weight?"

 

Liam huffs. "He looks a good one hundred and twenty. Maybe five to ten pounds lighter. But," he huffs at Louis again, then groans over the Batman movie blasting through the flat screen telly. " _No._ Weight, obviously, isn't my only criteria. He was just nice. Pretty. Maybe a little too snappy for me, but. Pretty."

 

Louis raises an eyebrow at him.

 

"Lou. Seriously. He has the most _gorgeous_ eyes. Even his lips are to die for. He's got a foul vocabulary, says a little bit of rude things, but he's, like, _gorgeous_. Model material, really."

 

Louis looks at the screen just as Batman leaps into his pimped-up Batmobile and pulls a face. "This must be the first guy you've told me about since I've known you." He looks back into Liam's troubled face. "You know, underneath all his clothes, and through his whole delicate ninety-pound — or whatever — figure, is a dick, right? He has a dick. You know that, yeah?"

 

Liam has lost count of how many times he's huffed since he's confided in Louis about this, but he does it again. He knew Louis would've been startled to hear it, he just didn't foresee this whole interrogation part of the conversation. He imagined it more like: Louis gets shocked, Louis asks basic questions, Louis gets bored and continues to enjoy their movie night. But, suddenly, dick questions. Nothing but dick questions.

 

"He's not ninety pounds," Liam preludes. "And, yeah. Yeah. I know he has a dick. 'E's got a pretty little mouth, too." He winces at the judgmental look forming across Louis' features. "Louis, please? Please just be a friend? For today?"

 

Louis takes another swig of beer, sighs contentedly, like he needed it to calm him down. Slapping a hand to his forehead, he asks, "But what happened to Isabelle? Is she out, now that you've found a bloke with a pretty mouth?"

 

"Nothing happened," Liam reaches out to grab another handful of butter-free popcorn. "She stayed over at my flat last night; didn't you see the news?"

 

Louis shakes his head. "I'm afraid I didn't watch the news today. Was too busy nursing Harry Styles and his annoying hangovers." He scowls at Liam. "Can you believe he drank so much champagne he tossed it up on his sugar momma's carpet? And she still fucked him after?"

 

"Louis. On topic, please."

 

Louis' expression falls into a stern one. He turns away to grab some popcorn. "Right. Sorry, sorry. Just. Surprising, is all. Back to you." Liam bites back his annoyed huff. "So, what do you plan to do with this, weird, crush? I'm not seeing the objective here."

 

Liam leans back on the couch, props his feet up next to the bowl of popcorn. "I mean. Like. I wanted to take him back to my place? Maybe cook him something, talk a little, and. You know." He shrugs. "But — but, long story short, he hates my guts. Can't stand me, really."

 

" _Liam Payne_. What'd your stupid arse do this time?" When Liam grins, Louis shakes his head like a disappointed parent. "You're supposed to be a heart-throbber. Is he straight?"

 

"That's not it. At least, I don't think so. I think he just hates me for ... _me_. Haven't a clue what I've done, though." He contemplates mentioning the part where he followed him to his job, but he can already feel the judgment radiating from Louis, so. He's gonna keep that one to himself.

 

"Sucks. Give it up, then," Louis says. "Why chase after a pretty-mouthed _man_ when you've got all eighty pounds of Isabelle?" He tunes back in to Batman. "The choice is obvious."

 

 _That's the reason, though_ , Liam wants to say, but doesn't. Or, not exactly those choice of words, but that's _one_ of the things he wants to say. Every little piece is intoxicating, is more like it; the shape of his eyes, the length of his lashes, the way his eyebrows slope upwards when he's bothered or otherwise uncomfortable. But Louis won't understand, no matter how carefully he explains it to him. So. Why bother.

 

Half way into the movie — and the popcorn bowl — the front door to the flat rings, and Louis slides from his position curled up against the arm of the couch to go get it. "I think I know who it is," he sing-songs, on his way.

 

Liam winces when he hears a loud and familiar, "Hiiiiii." Then Louis cheers, raps on about how he's missed his 'arse', and Harry Styles shows up in the living room, stumbling behind Louis in thick-heeled boots and a halfway unbuttoned dress shirt.

 

Liam will never really _get_ Harry like The Others do. He'll never understand the allure of cheesy gold rings and printed headbands and a mess of unwashed curls. And the five year old, beaten shoes paired with those jeans that obviously _aren't_ purposely ripped aren't much of an improvement. But. Okay. Liam can adapt to any situation.

 

"Hey, Mr. Styles," Liam says, tossing a wave over the back of the couch. "Come join us for the rest of the movie? Still haven't missed the best part."

 

Harry instantly eyes the unopened beer bottles resting at the foot of the coffee table, warming. "I've seen this four times already," he says, as he picks one up and cracks open the top. "Besides, I've got important news to share. We can all go to the bar and celebrate after I tell you."

 

Louis tosses himself back beside Liam, grabs another handful of popcorn and shoves it in his mouth. "And what is it?" he asks through a mouthful. "You're going to finally get a proper job?"

 

Liam snorts.

 

" _No_ ," Harry huffs, but pleasantly. He squeezes himself between the two boys and takes a quick swig of his beer. Liam quietly notes that he smells like his disastrous, natural cologne of Alcohol & Perfume. It's toxic, almost; Liam twists his head slightly away, grabs some popcorn, himself, to chase the stench away. "It's something about one hundred times better than a job."

 

Louis sighs. "Okay. Spill it. What's this exciting news that you absolutely  _must_ interrupt Batman Returns for?"

 

Harry grins victoriously at the two, his green eyes lighting up in excitement, as he nearly squeals, "I'm getting married!" He tosses his spread fingers out,  _ta-da!_ style, as he searches their faces for any sort of reaction.

 

Liam remains intentionally silent — as to prevent any negative commentary from slipping out unannounced, like diarrhea — while Louis answers an unusually calm and quick, "And to whom are you getting married to, Harold?"

 

"Caroline." He takes another sip of his beer before he puts it down, faces Louis. "You remember her, right? Caroline Flack? The actress?"

 

Louis raises both eyebrows in an attempt to seem supportive; to Liam, it only comes off as barely ( _barely_ ) tolerant. "Oh?" his voice raises two octaves. Liam bites back a smile. "Caroline Flack? And you're not the only one who knows of this engagement?"

 

"She proposed to _me_ , actually. Says she wanted to finally be serious." Harry does his _ta-da!_ hands again. "So. My new job is being a full-time husband! Innit great, Lou?"

 

Louis reaches to scratch at an invisible itch in his beard, contemplative. He stares at the television absentmindedly, and thinks. And thinks. And after about ten seconds of thinking, Harry is beginning to deflate, and Liam is trying harder and harder not to burst into laughter.

 

Because — _really_? Like, _honestly_? It's not like either of them didn't see this coming, they sort of, probably have, but it's still like a shock to the system: Harry Styles getting married. Harry, with his atrocious style that only older, rich women and younger, needy men seem to like, and his dead career and cheesy pick up lines, is getting _married_ before anyone else. At twenty years old, Harry Styles will be the youngest out of all of them to have married.

 

And who knows if it'll last? It most likely isn't. But. Like. It doesn't change the fact that this is happening.

 

"Caroline a bad choice?" comes Harry's defeated tone of voice.

 

Louis insists on scratching his invisible itch, furrows his eyebrows at Harry. "No, no, love, it's just that," he pauses. "You're, like. Twenty? Doesn't this seem like a bad idea?"

 

"Don't get hitched too young, mate. It's bad news," Liam finally offers. "You've got so many woman out there to explore, and you're choosing _one_ at twenty years old?"

 

Harry begins to fumble with the sleeves of his pin-striped dress shirt, shrugs. "I 'dunno. I. Like her? She's lovely, and she's been there for me even when I was flat hopping. I can tell she loves me as is."

 

The noise from the movie fills the otherwise silent living room until Louis sighs, says, "Well. Can't argue with that." He looks Harry sternly into the eyes. "If you're serious about this," ("And I am," Harry interjects), "then I can't talk you out of it. Just. Be aware, yeah? You've got a whole world ahead of you, and marriage is no walk in the park."

 

"Yeah," Harry swallows. "Okay. Thanks, Lou."

 

Louis smiles softly at him, runs his fingers through his tucked back fringe. "Anything for my Harry."

 

Liam's stomach twists, and. Time to stop this sappy conversation before he barfs up his popcorn and beer — a lethal combination. "So," he claps. "how about those celebratory drinks? My treat."

 

"Ace."

 

"Cheers," Harry shouts, wrapping Liam in an Alcohol & Perfume-scented hug. "Thanks, Li. You're the best!"

 

Liam politely pats his back until Harry lets go and stands up so quickly he nearly tumbles over. "Woah," Louis reaches a hand up to press into the small of his back, stands up next. "Don't let the excitement kill you!"

 

"I'm getting married _and_ getting free drinks," slurs Harry, as if he's already been drinking. "What could be better?"

 

"Not dying, maybe," Louis quips, before standing up and going for his shoes. "Let's go, then. The night won't be young for long!"

 

 _Neither will Harry_ , Liam thinks. He turns the telly off, follows the other two into the foyer, and grabs his jacket from the coat hanger. "I'll be the designated driver. Not much in a mood to wake up with a bloody hangover two mornings in a row."

 

But Louis and Harry are already deep in their own conversation, Louis smiling up at the younger lad so wide that the little wrinkles form around his eyes; Harry's speaking animatedly (about the wedding, Liam catches), his arms making wild movements as he explains future decorations and his and Caroline's matching attire and performance plans, and. Just. _Everything_.

 

Liam still can't understand how Louis' dealt with him for so long. And maybe it's okay that he doesn't and won't: Harry's a special kind of breed, and maybe Liam would be one, too, if Harry's every decision is comprehensible to him.

 

He'll just wait and see what happens.

 

•

 

The bar is packed, and when the paparazzi hear word of Liam's whereabouts, the crowd only intensifies. There are about fifty people outside, half working for the tabloids, snapping picture after picture as Liam & co. sip martinis and/or back shots.

 

And, it's not like this hasn't happened before. There have been plenty of situations in which Liam only wanted to spend some time relaxing, chatting with Louis and whomever made a guest appearance with them — and the bloody paparazzi ruins it. The publicity is _good_ , his managers say, because it keeps him relevant, keeps him in the game for just that while longer, and being seen with Important Celebrities is even better.

 

Which makes his job easier, actually. Because Louis is pretty much an Important Celebrity, his name plastered in several fashion magazines to give credit to the man who scouts and brings modeling careers to life; and Harry Styles — oh, man, _Harry Styles_ — is number one in making controversial headlines. His living is practically made off of anyone rich enough to support him, shots of his arm slung around the next potential victim (or, in Harry's words, 'lover') to uphold his lavish lifestyle month after month after month. He makes great television, really.

 

Then all Liam has to do is go on "secret" outings with some Mystery Girl, get "caught" in the middle of a steamy love triangle, and produce more work for Abercrombie & Fitch when all attention is on him, and: wah-lah. That's what he likes to call Business as Usual.

 

"I'm gonna go blind," Louis groans, rubbing at his eyes when a series of flashes come in through the bar windows. "Should we go?"

 

Harry winces as the vodka burns his throat. "But we haven't even gotten to the jelly shots yet." He sets the empty glass down at the bar, smiles a pink-mouthed smile when the bartender comes to whisk it away. "Or maybe we should find something to celebrate with, make someone order us wine and champagne." He immediately starts searching the bar before his idea can be addressed.

 

"Or," Liam says. "we can go to the club, find some girls to bring back to my flat? Have us a good time?"

 

Harry sighs. "Li. I'm a married man now. Come on."

 

"You're not even married yet," Liam retorts.

 

Louis waves his hand back and forth, brushing away the hypothetical topic. "Besides all that, aren't you head over heels for that pretty mouth dude? You've forgotten about that already, then?"

 

Harry snaps his head away from scouting the area to stare, wide-eyed, at Liam. "Pretty mouth dude?" he parrots. "What is Louis talking about?"

 

Liam rubs at the stress wrinkles on his forehead, turns his attention ahead, at the display of wines behind the bar. "It's nothing, Harry," he grumbles. "He's not interested anyway. What am I, married to him? I can't chat up girls because I think he has a nice face?"

 

Louis shrugs slowly. "You seemed pretty serious to me. Is that all down the drain now?"

 

Harry looks anxiously between Louis and Liam. "Who is he? What's his name? What does he look like?" He pauses on Liam. "I thought you didn't like boys?"

 

Why did he do this? Why _does_ he do this? He wants to punch himself in the face for even bringing Zayn up to Louis in the first place. And now that Harry knows, he'll _never_ hear the last of it. Liam closes his eyes tight, channeling his inner strength, before he turns to Harry and Louis, recites, "He's someone I met after I went to some VIP party with Lou. His name's Zayn. Zayn Malik. He's got — got  gorgeous brown eyes and. And really, um, nice lips, I suppose?" Harry blinks at him expectantly. Liam glances away. "I don't normally like men, no. Zayn's. Rare."

 

"Can we meet him?" Harry turns to Louis, then back to Liam. "Can I meet him, Li?"

 

"They're not exactly on speaking terms, Haz," Louis smirks, sips from his martini. "Zayn seems to hate his guts, really."

 

Liam wishes he could teleport back to his flat, hide under the covers. "Wow," he hears Harry say, but he doesn't dare look. "what'd you /do/?"

 

There's a pause in their conversation as more flashing lights from the cameras temporarily blind each of them. Liam squints as he gets up from the barstool and turns away from the cameras. "Can we go to the club now? I'm getting a headache."

 

Louis and Harry hesitantly follow suit. "From what," Louis starts. "The cameras, or the questions?"

 

"The interrogation, yes," Liam rummages through his wallet and slaps some pounds down before walking off. "Let's go."

 

He can hear the pout in Harry's voice when he overhears him saying, "I guess our bar celebration has been cut short."

 

"Where are we going, anyway?" Louis rushes to keep up with Liam's fast pace. "Harry's an honest and good man, now. With his wife and all."

 

Liam pauses right in front of the bar doors, mostly to glare at Louis — but partly because there's a clusterfuck of fans and paparazzi waiting for them outdoors. "He's not married yet," he whispers to him, before Harry can catch up. "and we all know that won't last, anyway."

 

Louis grins. "Who has a better chance of getting together _and_ lasting, you think? Harry and Caroline, or you and Zayn?"

 

Harry steps up to them just then, scowling. "Hey," he whines. "are we betting on me?"

 

Liam shrugs his jacket on, then pushes the bar door open a crack. A gust of cold air and an eruption of camera clicks and screaming girls pour right in. "I guess we'll see," he shouts over the noise.

 

And he's pretty sure Louis answers, "Game on," but it's hard to hear through the mess before them.

 

•

 

Zayn dreams a lot. But lately, he's been daydreaming more. At work, through errands, while with Yaser at the university admissions office: he dreams too much.

 

They've all been good, though. _Great_ , even. They've been about going from cramped up in his mum's single-bedroom flat, cramming for finals and finishing up Chinese takeaway, to living lavishly, in a three-story home in the suburbs, able to spend a little extra money on decorations and homemade dinner and maybe even Christmas prevents for his sisters.

 

But dreams always end, and Zayn's reality continuously taps him on the shoulder before he can swallow himself up too deep. Here, there's no mum, no three-story house, no extra money for presents on the holidays, not even the single bedroom flat; no, what he's got now is a full time job, a couch for a bed, and a tiny little flat shared amongst him and his sperm donor, Yaser. His dreams are too far over the horizon to even _see_.

 

So. There's that.

 

(Zayn has to pretend he doesn't mind this existence. Has to pretend that the _KILL ME_ is a thing of the past.)

 

He spends his Sunday evening in preparation mode for his first day of classes on Monday. And since Yaser is off working, he hops a bus to the college bookstore, ignores the way Liam's face is all scrunched up on the side of the vehicle. Ignores the way Liam's face is all scrunched up on taxi cars, too.

 

And Zayn has to ignore the way Liam's face is plastered on the front of the cashier's magazine in the bookstore; has to ignore the way Liam's caught making out with some new girl on the television screen in the corner of the laundromat.

 

And. Zayn's exhausted from pretending. And ignoring. And how Liam Payne doesn't seem to  _ever_ get out of his life, does he? He's been in London for only about three weeks now, and Liam's the most frequent person he's met, surpassing even Yaser — and Zayn _lives_ with Yaser.

 

But it doesn't stop. Zayn comes in for his evening shift at the pizzeria, and Perrie's hot on his arse in a matter of minutes, asking, "So, how do you know Liam? Are you guys friends?"

 

Zayn takes his time shrugging off his coat and tossing it under the counter. He fixes the apron over his hideous, mustard yellow top, and immediately goes to clock himself in. Perrie follows.

 

"Zayn? Are you and Liam friends?" She watches him clock in, then continues to follow as he walks back out onto the floor. "Zayn?"

 

"What?" he snaps. Zayn furrows his eyebrows at her, says, "I don't know him, okay? I barely even know the guy. He just won't —" he pauses as Perrie gives him a bewildered look. "He — I don't know. He's pushy and weird. That's all."

 

"Okay," Perrie says slowly. So ... You're _not_ friends?"

 

"No. We're not."

 

She seems taken aback by this. "You sure? Because he came in morning shift. Was looking for you."

 

Zayn turns away from the cash register and frowns at her. " _What_? Why? What did'e want?"

 

"He never told me. He came in all secretive, like he was hiding? Maybe from the paps." Perrie shrugs. "Anyway, he asked me what shift you'd be here."

 

Oh fuck. Oh no. "Don't tell me," he says carefully. "You told him my shift?" Zayn winces when Perrie doesn't answer right away. "Perrie, why? Why'd you tell him?"

 

"I didn't know you were trying to avoid him! Besides, how could I say no to that face?"

 

"You couldn't tell by how I was _pretty_ much begging him to fuck off last week? Seriously?" Zayn glares back at the cash register, punches numbers so hard his fingertips throb. "Take my shift, Perrie."

 

Perrie steps beside him to look him incredulously in the face. " _What_? I've been working all day!"

 

"You owe it to me." Zayn reaches under the counter to snatch up his coat. "You _owe_ me this, since you told him when I work, yeah?"

 

" _No_ ," she argues. "I don't. Come on, Zayn; I need to go home."

 

"And I don't need a stalker," he tells her sternly. "I'm going home before he shows up." He starts to the back, ignoring Perrie's pleas, just as the front door to the pizzeria opens and in comes a mysteriously dressed man with familiar timberland boots.

 

None of the few customers there recognize him as he approaches the cash register, taps his gloved fingers on the counter. "Hey," he whispers to Perrie. "Is he here?"

 

Perrie blinks nervously at the employees only door. "Um," she mutters. "He —"

 

Zayn slides back out with his coat on. "I'm off," he tells her. "Tell him you lied, please. Bye."

 

"Tell who you lied?" the discreet yet painfully obvious man in front of the counter asks. Perrie blanches while Zayn eyes him, suspicious, before that smirk sends sparks of recognition through his stare, and he instantly frowns.

 

"Bye." Zayn rushes past the two, ignoring Perrie's plea for him to wait. He knows — fucking  _knows_ — Liam's following him out, before he's down the unfortunately empty street and Liam's hot on his tail, shouting, "Zayn, wait! I've got a question!"

 

Zayn continues to rush before he makes a sudden stop, nearly knocking Liam right into him. He turns around to face the other man and glares. "Why are you stalking me? What do you fucking _want_ from me, aside from my number?"

 

Liam fixes the beanie on his head, sighs before answering, "I want you to tell me why you always look seconds away from murdering me. Then I'll —"

 

"Maybe because you won't leave me alone? Because you're a stranger and a creep who won't let off, and you won't take _no_ for a fucking answer?" Zayn clenches and unclenches his fists. "If you keep following me, I'll punch you. I swear I'll punch you, Liam Payne."

 

Liam quickly looks around. "Shh," he hisses. "Someone might notice me."

 

Zayn looks at him, baffled, for a moment, before he glances around at the pedestrians walking by them. While Liam is distracted scouting the area, Zayn snatches the beanie off his head, subsequently tugs his scarf off next. "Liam Payne," he repeats loudly. " _Liam Payne is right here_!"

 

Liam's face can be described as none other than shocked and confused. People begin to look and stare, some even pulling their camera phones out within seconds. Liam turns to glare at Zayn's proud little grin. "Zayn Malik," he growls. "Why the fuck did you—?"

 

"Now leave me alone," Zayn interrupts. "Okay? I'm being nice this time, so go away before I seriously punch you."

 

"No way. Now that you've started this war, I'm not going. I'll put you in the papers, quick, for this." Liam snatches Zayn's wrist and starts off towards his new, parked motorcycle. He ignores the growing flashes of camera phones in his face. "In no time the paps will be here, and I'll tell every single one of them that Zayn Malik is my new mate."

 

Zayn tries to pry himself from Liam's grip, to no avail. "You think they care? They don't give two shits about some no name." He tugs again. "Now let go! Let go, Liam!"

 

"They will when I tell them you're a newly scouted model," Liam answers without looking back. He gets to his bike before letting Zayn go, turns to face him with a smirk. "Or my new boyfriend, maybe?"

 

Zayn widens his eyes at him. "You wouldn't _dare_. You'd be given a poor name, too."

 

"Bad publicity is still publicity." Liam shrugs. "I'm just doing my job."

 

The crowd is growing. Zayn looks around at all the people, is shocked to see that the first paparazzi has _already_ shown up. "Liam, over here!" the guy cries. "Liam!"

 

Zayn looks back to catch Liam still smiling slyly at him. And, _fuck_ him. Fuck this man, because now Zayn's too tied up in this mess to just _go_. In any instant, Liam has the power to crush his whole lying low persona. In any instant, Zayn Malik could be Liam Payne's new boyfriend.

 

"Sorry, okay?" Zayn says, voice weak. "I'm sorry for treating you like shit. I'm sorry for getting the paparazzi on your arse. So, just. Just don't, yeah? _Please_."

 

Liam looks off, as if contemplating this. He buries his hands in his jeans pockets as he thinks. "You act so compliant when you want something, don't you? Otherwise it's 'leave me alone' this, and 'don't follow me' that."

 

"Those still stand. You've got the whole world in your hands; why do you even choose to stalk _me_?"

 

Zayn regrets saying that as soon as it leaves his mouth. Because, damn, it sounds so whiny. So attention-seeking. Like he's down on himself (like stalking is a _positive_ thing), and he wants (needs) Liam to assure him otherwise. And that _isn't_ what he's going for, at all. He just wants to be left alone, to his own devices — that's all he really knows, or understands.

 

He doesn't need models tracking his every move to feel wanted and complete. He doesn't even need to make headlines to realize that maybe his life isn't nearly as shitty as he thinks it is. He. He needs to stop cutting, maybe. And he needs to stop thinking about the past, about the nights when he felt the loneliest, about the days when his mum was gone, and his sisters felt worlds away. He needs recognition from the people he loves the most. He needs an apology from the man who _used_ to matter.

 

He needs. A lot. Too much. But this isn't it. This will _never_ be it.

 

"Stalk," Liam repeats dryly. "That word makes me sound awful, innit?" He glances up at the increasing amounts of people standing around, watching and snapping pictures. Some girls have already started screaming and crying his name. Rubbing at his short haircut, he says, "Maybe I'm bad at this? I've been stalking, haven't I?"

 

Zayn doesn't answer, just crosses his arms over his chest and tries to ignore the attention they're receiving and the heaviness in his heart. His eyes stay leveled with the sidewalk.

 

"Sorry." Liam leans down towards Zayn. "I'm sorry, too. I just wanted. I." He pauses to think. "Like, you're. Gorgeous? So, I guess I just went about this the wrong way. Got all obsessed, and all." He laughs nervously.

 

Zayn meets his eyes. "I'm flattered." He looks increasingly conflicted. "About the whole gorgeous part, not the ... the stalking part."

 

Liam frowns, guilty.

 

"I am. But. But maybe you should worry yourself with somebody else? I." Zayn winces when more screams erupt. Some girl even attempts to approach the two with pleas for a picture. "We're gonna have to chat later." Zayn turns to go. "Have fun, Liam. And. Good luck with all, this."

 

Liam ignores the girl. "Wait," he fishes out his phone. "Your number? So. So we can talk about this later? At least?" He extends it to him, anxious.

 

Zayn eyes the cell before he looks up at Liam, defeated, and takes it. "Fine. But don't blow up my cell, yeah? Call only one time, and I'll pick up when I can." When Liam accepts the terms of agreement, Zayn inserts his number into the contacts, hands it back to him. "Later. And don't you _dare_ tell the magazines anything about me."

 

Liam raises a pinky, his smile so obnoxiously big that Zayn wants to punch it off. "I promise. Cheers."

 

Liam watches Zayn hesitantly go before he even thinks to address anybody else. And, a man of his word, he ignores any insistent questions about the man he was with.

 

•

 

He ignores all questions until, of course, Louis catches word of it in the following day's headlines and shows up at his flat about it.

 

"Have you seen the papers?" is the first thing Louis asks when Liam groggily opens the door. Louis grimaces at his bare chest before elbowing his way in and kicking off his Vans in the foyer. "They're saying you were in a heated argument with some pizza guy. Pretty comical, if you ask me."

 

Liam rubs the sleep from his eyes while closing the door behind him, yawns. "That was Zayn," he slurs.

 

Louis pauses on his trek to the kitchen. Turning to face Liam, he asks, incredulously, "Pizza guy was Mr. Gorgeous? _really_ , mate?"

 

Liam slides past him and into the kitchen, starting immediately on some tea.

 

"Oh my god," Louis shakes his head. He blindly shrugs off and tosses his jean jacket over the back of the couch before following Liam. "You're head over heels with a _pizza guy_? What's next? You'll finally start finally dating girls twice your size?"

 

"Louis. Please. Some people have to support themselves."

 

Louis scoffs. "Well, _yeah_ , but even dating _Harry_ would've been an improvement — and he doesn't even have a job!"

 

This is starting to grind on his nerves, a little. Everyone's so judgmental, so easy to gossip and shove their opinion down his throat; and, it's like, shut up. If Liam wants to hear what others think, he'll ask. Otherwise — no thank you. But he can't tell Louis that without seeming like a serious jerk, so he blurts, "I got his number," instead, and tries not to regret it when Louis makes a shocked noise.

 

"Zayn the Pizza Man gave you his number? What'd you do to get _that_? Bribe him? Threaten him?"

 

Liam is mad at himself for getting a little offended at that, but he does. "No," he says defensively. "he gave me it so we could chat. About us, pretty much." Louis makes another shocked noise. "There were too many people around and it made him nervous, alright?"

 

"Wait 'till Sophia hears all about this. Liam Payne ditches Isabella Marsh." He shakes his head while taking a seat on top of the countertop by the stove. "She'll be all 'Liam's gay?', and I'll be all 'Shocking, innit?'"

 

Liam scowls at him. "This is none of Sophia's business, Lou. I'm trusting you to keep this on the down low until I decide what to do with it." He turns back to his whistling kettle. "I don't even know if I want to be serious with another man, yet. It's a tad new to me."

 

"Well. I won't tell Sophia, then. Just be aware that if this gets out, it could cause some trouble in paradise for all your little sideline hoes."

 

"Louis, jeez, sideline hoes? Where'd you pick that up?"

 

Louis jumps off the countertop and goes for his jean jacket. "I'd love to stay, chat, and drink all of your tea, but I actually need to get to work. I can't party on weekdays like you can, anymore."

 

Liam watches him pull his jacket on and sighs. "Great. Maybe I'll see what Sophia is up to later. Thanks for the small chat, I guess. Call me tonight."

 

"Will do." Louis walks up to his shoes, but pauses before he reaches down to pull them on. Liam's taking the kettle off the stove when Louis turns around to face him. "And, Li?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Be careful, mate. This is a sticky situation. Could kill your career if placed in the wrong hands."

 

Liam shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see."

 

"Okay. Later."

 

Liam pretends to not watch Louis go. It's scary, actually, how serious Louis seems about this. Because it's not often that Louis shows his concerns about something unless it could actually pose a threat for him or his family and friends; the thought is frightening to Liam, and he goes through the rest of his morning wondering if he should call Zayn or not.

 

He's walking on a thin rope. If, by any chance, he and Zayn _do_ fall Oh So in Love and it gets out that Liam is now dating men, his career can go either way. Depending on the delicate situation, Louis is right: he can lose it all. He can be dropped from contracts, get his name tarnished, and lose everything that took years to build up. Or it can make papers, cause controversy, and make him as popular as ever.

 

Liam sits back on his couch with this in mind. There are too many possibilities, too many messy roads, too much to think about. He can lose it all to a man he may not even be serious about. He can lose it all before it even begins.

 

Liam decides to set this aside for later. It's too much stress for the morning, and it makes him want a drink.

 

He goes to the gym instead.

 

•

 

Zayn couldn't sleep the night before his first day of classes. He stayed up, lying in fetal position by his little radio, listening to Niall Horan interview some music industry-hopefuls for three hours straight. And now he really fucking regrets that choice, because nine a.m. classes are virtually _impossible_ to get through without dozing off at least three times during the lesson.

 

His new biology professor is nice, though. She speaks eloquently and excitedly, trying to give everyone eye contact or a chance to speak. And his class is small — about forty people — which is nice; it almost feels like a little family, how kind and helpful everyone is to him in there.

 

Zayn just wishes he can be properly awake to enjoy it. Zayn just wishes he doesn't have to pass by every goddamn magazine stand in the city and see his face plastered on the front — next to the one and only Liam Payne.

 

 _LIAM PAYNE REALLY WANTS PIZZA?_ the headlines say. The caption underneath says, _Liam Payne gets Pizza Guy's Number?_ , with an arrow pointing to Liam extending his cell towards a skittish Zayn Malik. And although the unclear profile of Zayn's face may make it a little difficult to recognize him if he happens to be walking on the streets, it's mortifying all the same: Zayn is in the tabloids.

 

"Do they not have a better story to cover?" he quietly asks himself, magazine in hand. The convenience store isn't as bustling during the day as it is as night, leaving Zayn a little privacy to pick up celebrity magazines without looking like he's _actually_ interested in some famous person's life. That would be a worse fate than actually being _in_ the magazines — probably.

 

But then the cashier seems busy, the university students at the front are absorbed in their conversation about workload, and Zayn becomes increasingly curious. Because, well, what could the tabloids even _write_ about this? He glances up over the aisle before he flips to the page with the Liam Payne/Pizza Guy scandal, skims over the words.

 

 _Model Liam Payne seems desperate for pizza, and asks for this pizza guy's cell number! Is the Abercrombie & Fitch hunk ready to give up his figure already? We haven't even seen the 2015 swimsuit collection on his fit body yet_!

 

Zayn stops reading immediately. Well, obviously, they'd rather fawn over his physical attributes than mention his connection with so-called Pizza Guy — and what was Zayn expecting? As long as the attention diverts from himself, he's fine. It's just a damn shame that his face is in the magazines, regardless of what the article says (or, rather, doesn't say).

 

He replaces the magazine on the stand, grabs a bag of crisps, and pays for it at the front. The cashier doesn't recognize him as she takes his money, hands him the bag, and waves him off as he rips open the bag on his way out. Which is good. Zayn, once again, doesn't know what he was thinking. He's still just a nobody forced to live in a temporary London residence.

 

He hops the bus back to Yaser's flat.

 

•

 

Zayn gets back that evening to a flat full of men. Older, exuberant men, with beer bellies and smile wrinkles and loud, booming voices. He shrinks at the doorway at the first sound of them, fingers clutched tightly at his backpack strap. Their shoes are tossed haphazardly in the foyer; their many winter jackets hang loosely on the coat hanger.

 

And there's noise. Plenty of it. There's crazed laughter, the television is on full blast, what seems like more than three conversations are carrying on at once, and Yaser is in the kitchen, handing off bottles of beer, microwaving lukewarm takeaway, and piling dirtied dishes in the sink.

 

Zayn has no clue what to do, at first. He remains right up against the front door, coat hanging off of him, shoes still on his feet. Glancing into the living room, he finds the lot of them, well, in the most polite way he can put it: sitting their fat arses all over his makeshift bed, kicking their feet up on his makeshift study table (A.K.A, the coffee table), and making an absolute mess of his makeshift bedroom (A.K.A, the living room) with their takeaway and napkins and empty beer bottles and otherwise rubbish. A football game blasts from the stereos.

 

"And who's this?" one of them, with a head so free of hair it shines, cries out over the chaos at Zayn. "Another guest?"

 

Everyone looks over at him at once, and Zayn's heart traps in his throat.

 

"A little too young, inne?" another, with hair slicked back with too much oil, inquires, after giving Zayn a careful once-over.

 

There's a brief moment of him watching the gathering watch him before Yaser looks up over the kitchen counters, says calmly, "That's my son, Zayn. He's staying with me for awhile."

 

Everyone answers with their own chorus of approval, delight, and shock.

 

" _This_ is your son?" Bald Guy gasps. He raises thick eyebrows at Zayn. "He's gotten so big since I've seen 'em last!"

 

"He looks better in person!" says one with a mess of wavy hair.

 

"And how old are you, Zayn?" another with a long ponytail asks, getting up from sitting on his fucking bed to walk over and jerk a hand at him. "I'm Carl. But you can call me David." His Irish accent is thick and obnoxious.

 

Zayn continues to stand practically in the corner of the flat, bewildered gaze shifting from one unfamiliar face to another. And — what is this? What the _fuck_ is this? Rubbish is everywhere, and his living space is ruined, and he has no fucking clue what to do or say. He's only just created himself a safe haven in this one-bedroom flat — was prepared to have himself a nice, soothing cuppa while he listened to early morning radio and did his homework — and so easily it's ruined. Everything's fucking _ruined_.

 

And Zayn doesn't consider himself a rude person. He's quite friendly, in fact, with anyone who offers themselves to him in a token of companionship — but, he can't take this. He can't do this now. The panic of it all makes his chest tight, eyes burn, thoughts erratic.

 

Zayn ducks the Irishman's hand, rushes into the kitchen with all shocked eyes on him. Pulling Yaser close to him, he hisses, "They're. All. Over. My. Stuff."

 

Yaser simply removes himself from Zayn's arm, turns away to open another box of cheese pizza. "Relax, will you? Just enjoy yourself, and they'll be gone in —"

 

" _No_ ," interrupts Zayn, louder than he should've. But he doesn't care, not anymore. The television drowns him out, though he knows everyone can see the anger on his face, in his eyes. The Irishman awkwardly returns to the living room with the rest, says something to one of them with a dejected expression. The guy just nods.

 

Yaser turns to Zayn then, glares straight into his eyes. But Zayn stands his ground, because he can't fucking stand this. He can't believe this is happening to him right now, in this shitty place, away from his entire family. They can all fuck off for all he cares — they were the rude ones first, trashing the only private area he has in London. He's so angry he could cry.

 

"You're selfish," hisses Yaser. "You're selfish, like your mum, and you're just as shit a person as she is." He tosses a packet of napkins down hard onto the kitchen counters, the impact jerking his guests in their seats, even with the noise from the football game filling the air. "This is _my_ home, not yours. And if I want to have a little party, I can. I'm not about to argue with my own son about this."

 

Zayn looks from all the watchful eyes, to Yaser, to the watchful eyes, and back again. "I hate you," he seethes. "I fucking _hate_ you." And before Yaser can respond, he rushes off towards the bathroom, slams the door behind him.

 

Within seconds, there's a rapid knocking at the door, but he ignores it. He lets his backpack drop to the ground as he wildly tosses open cabinets and scrambles to find his razors. " _Zayn_ ," Yaser's voice shouts from the other side of the door. " _Zayn_ , we need to talk. _Now_."

 

His vision is blurring. Blurring, he realizes, from tears. Wiping his face furiously to clear his vision, Zayn hurriedly stuffs the razors into his pockets (carefully, as to not stab himself in the thigh with them — although that wouldn't really matter, would it?) before he shrugs his back pack back on, looks at himself in the mirror.

 

Zayn's face is red. Red from fury, red from an onslaught of tears, red from the breakdown that's been threatening to happen since he was exiled from his family home nearly a month ago. And he can't take it. He can't take this fucking life anymore; because, how is this living? How is just barely surviving living?

 

He doesn't care. He doesn't. He cared the moment after _KILL ME_ showed up on his forearm, the moment he saw the impact of his meltdowns — but he doesn't care now. Not anymore. He'll cut and cut and cut until he's a bloodied mess. And maybe this time he'll die.

 

Zayn turns away from his reflection to toss the bathroom door open. Yaser had just turned to leave him be when he quickly turns back around, comes face to face with his son. Zayn makes sure to shoot him the worst glare he can manage (because,   _fuck_ him and his stupid fucking _party_ ) before he starts towards the front door, ignoring the completely furious shouts as he sprints out and down the street.

 

•

 

This sucks. It all sucks. Zayn can't stop crying, no matter how many hours have passed, and no matter how much his body feels weak or famished.

 

And it doesn't help that it's cold. The convenience store's outside table feels cold against his cheek, hard underneath his bum — and he can't stop fucking crying.

 

Before he knows it, it's one a.m., and Niall Horan's voice pours out from the convenience store speakers. " _Welcome back to early morning radio_ ," he purrs. " _It's currently one in the morning, and this is Niall Horan, signing in._ "

 

Zayn whimpers, blubbers madness to himself, then falls back into another fit of sobs.

 

" _Today is we have a special segment, full of interviews, fantastic mixes, and a little something of my own to finish it up. Let's start with bringing upcoming indie artist, Leigh Anne-Pinnock, for an interview on her growing success. Leigh-Anne?_ "

 

Zayn stops paying attention after the first heartfelt greeting, curls further into himself instead.

 

Yaser's been calling since he first left the flat, one call every few minutes; now it's infrequent — one maybe every thirty minutes. Zayn's been gone for about seven hours now and Yaser still won't stop fucking calling him. He can't take the fucking hint that Zayn'd rather eat his own puke than pick up.

 

So when he receives _another_ fucking call twenty minutes after the last (he's being more frequent now, is he?), Zayn decides that he'll pick up.

 

He'll pick up, alright, and give him a fucking earful of how much he hates him, how much he hates living with him, how much Yaser makes him want to die, sometimes, with his shite memory, with his _selective_ memory, with his shite personality of purposely refusing to admit any of his faults. Zayn shoots up in his seat, wipes at his flushed, swollen face, and fishes his cell out of his jeans pocket.

 

The blood's already dried on his lower arm, he very briefly notices before he picks up his phone, practically screams into the receiver, "What do you want? When did you _ever_ want anything to fucking do with me, actual _me_ , and not my hand, or my mouth? Huh? What do you _want_?"

 

"My god," a voice that definitely does _not_ sound like Yaser gasps. "Are you quite done, Zayn Malik?"

 

Zayn's face goes red — this time in embarrassment. "Liam?" he croaks, throat hoarse from all his crying.

 

"The one and only."

 

"I'm so," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. Oh my god."

 

Liam huffs out a laugh. "It's quite alright. And I thought _I_ was out of it, phoning you at one thirty in the morning." There's a short pause as Zayn self-loathes and Liam gathers his words. "Are you... Are you okay, Zayn?"

 

(No. Never. He's never been okay, since the moment Liam crashed into his life, to this very morning, where the world is hazy and he's slowly losing more and more blood. It's cold, and he doesn't have a coat on, and his limbs feel numb and frozen, as does his mind. He wants to just get it over with and kill himself already, but he can never find the courage, can he? And — will he ever?)

 

"Living. Back to sleeping on public tables," he offers, a forced playfulness to his tone.

 

"You've really got to stop doing that, mate," groans Liam. "It's, like, so unsanitary. And it's _freezing_ outside."

 

Zayn doesn't answer, just runs a shaky hand through his fringe, glances inside the store and at the half-asleep cashier behind the counter. She's the same one from the past few times he's been here.

 

"So," Liam starts. "that chat we were going to have. Mind if I stop by your usual unsanitary table? Have that chat?"

 

Zayn hesitates. Then, "This isn't a good time, Liam. I," he glances down at his bloodied arm, can only imagine what his face looks like right now. And it doesn't help that his chest feels unbearably heavy, and his head is throbbing. "I can't. We have to do this later."

 

"Zayn," Liam interjects, and it's with so much power that Zayn is caught off guard. "I've been working myself up for this moment, yeah? I've had a lot of thinking to do — my friends think I've gone crazy, that's how serious my thinking has been — and I think, now. Now's the perfect moment. It's now or never, Zayn." Pause. "Don't hang up, please."

 

"Why?"

 

Liam is taken aback. "Huh?"

 

" _Why_? Why now? Why me? You seemed perfectly fine with your girlfriend. Saw you and her arm in arm on the telly a week back."

 

When Liam falters, Zayn's heart sinks further into his stomach. He doesn't know if he can deal with another letdown, doesn't know _how_ he can deal with it. Liam's an annoying, selfish little prat that Zayn will _never_ (read: _never_ ) date in infinity years, yeah, but when the idea is already planted in your head, you can't help but become a little dejected at the thought of the possibility falling through. Zayn can't face two disappointments in one fucking night. He _won't_.

 

"Look, Liam," Zayn sighs, finally. "I've got other things to worry about, and I'd really rather not —"

 

"I'm coming over there. Don't you dare move, Zayn Malik. I'm coming, and if you're not there, I'll ruin your life. I swear it."

 

Zayn scoffs. "Is that a threat? Really, mate?"

 

"Zayn. Please. I'm serious. No moving."

 

Zayn squints absently into the convenience store again, at the cashier fiddling with her chestnut ponytail. She seems a little too young to have such an early shift to take. She's always here.

 

"Okay," Zayn answers finally. "I wasn't planning on leaving, anyway."

 

•

 

Zayn manages to sneak into the store (he ducks behind an aisle when the front doors make a sound, signaling his entrance) and slide into the men's bathroom. He cleans his arm of the dried blood, is relieved to see that all the wounds have stopped bleeding. He rummages through his backpack to find the bandages he's kept in there since he first carved _KILL ME_ , wraps it around his arm when he finds it.

 

Next, is his face. Zayn splashes cold water across his cheeks, under his eyes, everywhere tears have touched. He continues to splash until he's tears-free, only slightly red-faced and not as swollen as before. His eyes still give him away, but it's better than before. Much better.

 

It's all silly, he thinks. He's a silly, silly man, crying over something so trivial, slicing himself open over every trifling matter. And 'silly' is an easier word to describe himself as than 'pathetic'. He's exhausted from all his mental breakdowns, at this point.

 

Literal minutes after Zayn returns to his seat Liam shows up, in some white, fluffy looking coat, blue jeans (Abercrombie & Fitch? Really, mate?), and Dr. Martens. He looks like a mess, but Zayn remains silent about that. Not the time. (Yet.)

 

"So you didn't lie," Liam says when he arrives, sliding into the seat across from him. "You're here." He examines him closely for a moment. "Are you sure you're okay?"

 

Zayn rubs instinctively at his eyes. "Never better. Just freezing my arse off."

 

Liam seems to accept this as the truth when he starts to shrug his tacky white coat off. "Here," he says. "My muscles will keep me warm."

 

Zayn glares. "No thank you. Keep it on."

 

Liam pauses mid-shrug. "You sure? You're shaking, mate."

 

"I'd rather freeze to death than take your coat, but thanks for the offer."

 

"Come on, Zayn. Don't be that way. You're _shaking_."

 

"Chivalry is dead."

 

"It doesn't have to be."

 

Zayn doesn't answer this, just looks off and into the store, crossing his arms across his chest.

 

Liam continues to stare at him in the following few seconds. Then suddenly he's up and around to Zayn's side, slipping the heavy, tacky coat around his broad shoulders.

 

"Liam," Zayn looks up at him to scowl. "I told you —"

 

"Just take it. Pretend it isn't mine, or something, but I can't watch you like this." Liam returns to his own seat immediately, just in case Zayn insists to complain.

 

Zayn's still scowling, but tugs the coat further around his body. "I'm a grown man," he says.

 

Liam leans back in his seat. "Yeah? Me too."

 

"You know what I mean."

 

"Doesn't mean I can't be nice," Liam counters. "Besides. I've got more muscle mass, keeps me warmer."

 

My fucking god. This guy never stops. "Nice," Zayn deadpans. "Thanks."

 

Liam shrugs. "Didn't mean to offend. It's just," he gives Zayn a slow once-over. "the truth."

 

Okay — enough of that. Zayn's reminded, once again, why he doesn't like this egotistical prat. "What," Zayn says. "you wanted to meet up to talk about muscles? Compare bodies?"

 

Liam's face instantly falls into a more serious expression, and he shakes his head. "Well. No. 'Course not."

 

Zayn tenses up at the sudden change of pace. In an instant, a recap of the last time they met — when all the paparazzi came and got his face in the papers — comes back to him, and the tightness of that moment hangs over their heads. Or, at least, that's what it _feels_ like.

 

"I'm going to start with saying," Liam slowly begins. "Sorry."

 

What?

 

"What?"

 

"Sorry," he repeats, quietly, like it pains him to do it. "for following you around, and going to your job more than once. I. I realize that that wasn't right. So. Sorry."

 

Okay... Zayn's listening. But he still eyes him apprehensively, weary of this side of Liam. It could be a guise, for all he knows. A perfectly constructed, sociopathic guise to get into his pants. And — not tonight. Not ever. He's not falling for this.

 

"And, the girl you saw in the tabloids last week? She's, like... Isabella?"

 

Zayn blinks slowly at him. "Are you telling me or asking me?"

 

Liam runs a timid hand over his short haircut. "Isabella. Her name's Isabella. We used to have a thing, but she's pretty much used to stir controversy now. Get the people talking." He shrugs — something Zayn now realizes is a nervous tick. "Business as usual, and all that."

 

Zayn doesn't know what to think of this. Or what to even say. Because, what _can_ you say to this? What can you say that's both truthful and substantial? _Okay, no problem_? But isn't that a lie? This entire situation is one big problem, and Zayn isn't about to wedge himself into it. He's stuck between too many worlds as it is.

 

"Okay," Zayn breathes, gently. Carefully. "I'm not ever going to really understand this so-called fake relationship ploy, and I don't want to. So, in conclusion, whatever you're offering I'm going to have to say _no_ , and I hope you enjoy your popularity, and fake relationships, and all." He slides the coat off of his shoulders, gets to his feet, and doesn't understand all of his anger when he practically tosses the coat into Liam's arms. "Goodbye."

 

He hooks his backpack straps over his shoulders and starts back down the street, trying not to look back, even as Liam shouts, "Zayn Malik!"

 

"Stop screaming my name," Zayn calls back.

 

"Zayn Malik," he shouts again. "don't do this. Don't go disappearing on me again!"

 

Zayn turns to face a standing Liam, starts to walk backwards. He tosses his hands up at him and shouts back, "Why do you care? Why does it even matter? Why are you doing this, Liam? _Why_?"

 

"I told you," Liam returns. He squints against the wind, street lamps burning bright behind him. The white coat hanging over one arm, other hand rubbing at his haircut, he answers, "You're gorgeous, Zayn. Absolutely gorgeous. And if I don't learn more about you soon I'm going to go crazy."

 

"Then go crazy," shouts Zayn, over the whirring of cars passing them by. "Go batshit insane with the thought of me. I hope you do." He turns to face the direction he's walking again, only manages to get right at the corner when an arm grips his forearm (right on the _KILL ME_ , so, yes, that felt great), and forces him back.

 

Zayn comes chest to chest with Liam Payne. He stinks of dried sweat, and cologne, and when he's _right_ there, head bowed to look Zayn straight into the eyes, Zayn loses his ability to breathe. Or to feel the pain of Liam gripping his ever-healing wound.

 

"Tell me," Liam growls breathlessly, against Zayn's face. His stare is smoldering. "why you keep running away. Why you always have new bandages on your arms. Why you can’t seem to stand the sight of me. Why you were crying. Why you were shouting at the top of your lungs at me on the phone, like you expected me to be someone else. Answer me, Zayn, I _swear_."

 

Zayn lets his eyes shamelessly fall to Liam's mouth, the pink full shape of it. He slides his gaze over the vein popping out of Liam's neck (and why is that so sexy? Why is it so sexy that Liam's losing himself over him?), up and back into his heavy stare. "Why?" Zayn says, breath coming out in a hot puff. "Because."

 

Liam is dead silent as he waits.

 

"Because," he repeats, even slower than before. And he's staring at Liam's mouth when he says, "it's none of your _fucking_ business."

 

•

 

And Liam drags him against the side of the dark building, presses him up to the brick before catching him in a hard kiss. It's all teeth, and the head-spinning slide of tongue against tongue, and Zayn thinks it's the best kiss he's had yet.

 

He realizes much too soon that it's over, and Liam's growling, "I'm going to see you again," before walking off and leaving him there, cold and light-headed.

  
•


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my ver. of a lazy summary: zayn is sleepy and confused, liam is fun-lovin', niall is chill and the love of zayn's life, louis is... louis, and harry is cute as a button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doezayn @ tumblr
> 
> lmao i'm back. sorry. i really am. i've rewritten this chapter literally 3-5 times, trying to form it into something i was proud of. i hit a bit of a writer's block, hated this story for a few months, then cracked down and got back to it. thank you for all who stayed patient with me !! i know i wouldn't have. anyways !! enjoy more fun angst and confused, pretty zayn and now the whole crew. i'll be working on the new chapter as you read this! and drop messages on my tumblr to get me to get my shit together whenever you want to.

Zayn just barely catches his first class. He spends too much time standing in the shower and tending to his new wounds that he loses track of time — not that it really matters much. He can’t even imagine paying attention during lectures today; there’s so much spinning in his head that it makes him sick. Sitting on that hard plastic seat for the remaining twenty minutes of the lesson is one of the most difficult tasks he'll have to endure since moving universities.

 

His Biology instructor shoots him a simultaneously worried and annoyed look when he first enters, but lets him leave soon after, without bringing attention to the blatant tardiness. Everyone else pretends he doesn’t exist.

 

For once, he's grateful for being ignored. The irony is almost thick enough to make him laugh.

 

But the monotony of this city life reminds him of how many miles he is away from home, from safety; and it stings, stings as if he’d ripped himself open again. Zayn can't help but think of his sisters often, wonder how they're fending for themselves when his mum can barely fend for herself. He longs to wake up in that old flat again – it doesn't matter where he lays, as long as he's back with his family – and catch Waliyha lying on the couch nearby him, face gentle and hair frazzled. He needs, fuck, he needs to hear Safaa's voice again, speaking excitedly to him about some new friend she made, or how well she's doing in secondary school. He can't take London anymore, with its fast-paced life and shitty dads and pushy, insistent models. How much longer can he take of this, he has to wonder. Maybe his expiration date has arrived.

 

God. Zayn feels morbid, aimlessly walking along London's streets with one backpack strapped to his shoulder and wishing for an early demise. And he knows no one can tell just by looking at him that if a car happened to swerve off the road and slam into him, sending his ribs into his lungs and killing him instantly, he wouldn't prevent it even if he had a chance – but somehow he feels like they can, that any glance in his general vicinity means they've somehow tapped into his most inner thoughts. He conspicuously hitches the backpack strap further onto his shoulder, ducks his head against the wind.

 

This aimless walk across streets, down roads, along what seems like an endless stretch of sidewalk, sends his mind whirring backwards, past the morning, past his dream, past the walk 'home', and back to that late night; quickly, it ends at Liam Payne. Zayn'd shoved the memory into the crevices of his head, as if labeling it TO RETURN TO LATER – and here he is. Liam Payne, professional model, full-time arsehole, is like an ex-girlfriend that won't stop calling. He doesn't know why he fucking kissed him (doesn't even want to ask himself /why/ he kissed him; it may send him into a mortified, self-loathing frenzy), doesn't know why he _let_ Liam kiss him, but at this point it doesn't matter. He just knows that it won't be happening again. Ever. God — It won't ever be happening again.

 

Zayn wasn't in his right state of mind last night, was sad and lonely and pissed, a little (a lot), but he is now, and this is final: he can't continue to meet Liam Payne. It's unhealthy for his already-deteriorating mental state, it's going to cause unnecessary drama and issues in a place that he's temporarily living in, and, well, it's Liam. No way is the bloke asking for anything serious, nor is it good for his so-called reputation that he pursues Zayn. The odds are all stacked against them, so, yeah, a kiss is all they'll ever share. Zayn has to find some way to make sure he doesn't remain in contact with him. He has to block his number.

 

 _Later_ , something tells him, when he glances down at the bulging shape of the cell in his skinnies. _Later I’ll block it_. It’s stupid, the hope he’s been holding onto for a few weeks now despite telling himself that he’s better off alone, better off without bratty celebrities following him around like a lovesick puppy dog. He’s been trying so hard to separate his life from Liam’s — from everybody’s lives in London, really — but it’s like walking across a slippery surface in socks: everytime he tries to cross over to the exit, he loses his footing and falls, face-first, back into this mess. And as long as he remains conflicted about what he wants to do, whether he wants to finally cut the strings that’s been relentlessly connecting him to Liam, he’s going to continue to slip and break his bones.

 

       Just these thoughts alone are exhausting; this restlessness haunts him back from the couple of hours of sleep he’s managed to squeeze in. Elbowing his way through mid-afternoon crowds, fingers strumming on the straps of his backpack in a pathetic attempt to keep himself warm, Zayn decides, finally, that his body can’t possibly keep steady with this fast-paced schedule, especially with his second classes coming fast — without any sort of pick-me-up, not blacking out during final lessons will be impossible at best.

 

Zayn makes a sharp turn on Great Portland, then down the street and into the coffee shop. As expected, it's crowded, with teenagers bustling about, uni students bent over their laptops, earbuds in, and baristas scurrying to make orders. The queue is practically out the door.

 

It's a reluctant decision to join the back of the line; Zayn _knows_ he'll black out somewhere between hopping on the city transit bus and taking the slow walk to campus without any form of caffeine, so here he is, standing right out the front door, behind a girl carrying a child in one hand, a cartoon-themed backpack in the other. Her hair is colored a bright red.

 

Twenty minutes pass and Zayn's still waiting, idle, although the queue's moved him inside the shop instead of out on the sidewalk. There's a frantic rush of employees handing out drinks, wiping off tables, and collecting money up at the cashier. One brunette behind the counter, her ponytail frazzled, winces as a woman gives her an earful for spilling some of her mocha. The woman's voice is so shrill it carries out over all of the commotion, drawing Zayn's attention from all the way in the back.

 

When the barista gives her apologies, sedating the fuming customer, and goes to rename her order, their eyes meet. It's for only a split moment — not even a second passes when she glances up and finds Zayn watching her — but it's enough for a smile to warm her face, erasing the previous nervousness.

 

Despite being insignificant, it means a little something to Zayn. Really, it's the first genuine smile he's seen in London that existed without ulterior motive (Perrie, Liam) or false kindness (classmates, teachers). And that. That shocks him. He's been living in London for nearly a month now and all he's been met with are deceitful, greedy people. Then this barista, albeit a stranger, gave him a — passing, yes, but — authentic smile, even after being bitched at by some pissed customer.

 

He. Zayn's never had that here. Although pathetic, the feeling burns his eyes.

 

Zayn gets caught up in this sudden burst of emotion until he feels an elbow to the ribs as someone tries, rudely, to pass through — and there goes the fucking moment.

 

"What the fuck is your problem, man?" Zayn immediately blurts, swinging his own elbow in rebuttal. It catches right on the arsehole's arm, sending him back.

 

"Sorry, sorry," returns a thick Irish accent. "I'm so sorry, mate!"

 

Zayn almost has the mind to insist on cussing him out (he knew v _ery well_ what he was doing; he's just apologetic because he got caught), but that voice jerks him to attention, trapping any next words in his throat. Without even thinking, without even looking back first, he hears himself ask, "Niall Horan?"

 

And that's all it takes. He catches eye of blonde hair first, then he's crammed at the doorway next to the guy, blue eyes right in his face. "You know me?" he answers cheerfully, like being jammed right into a stranger (who _elbowed_ him, need he not forget) in a crowded shop is no problem at all.

   

Zayn can't believe what he's seeing. It must be some sort of hallucination. This can't be the way he meets _the_ Niall James Horan; not when he was acting like such a fucking prat just a minute ago. The shame of it burns his cheeks, rendering him dead silent in the presence of the only 21st century celebrity that has ever mattered to him.

 

But Niall fills up the conversation for the both of them, having the mind to even extend an amicable handshake to the man who just cussed at him. Like the amazing person he is, he shouts over the noise, "Niall Horan. It's nice to meet a fan who knows who I am just by ear! That's never happened before."

 

Zayn dumbly takes his hand. The palms of Niall's hands are smooth and warm — just like his voice. It's incredible, how much confidence and assertiveness Niall radiates without making much effort. He's as calm and genuine as he sounds on the radio.

 

The line moves up, so the two of them are given more space to stand side-by-side. Niall's handshake is firm, excessive, but familiar. "And what name do you go by? I'd rather not call you 'fan' the entire time; sounds a little big-headed, yeah?" His laugh is loud and boisterous. Radio Niall's laugh is the complete opposite, Zayn denotes.

 

"Zayn Malik," Zayn finally says. He feels light-headed, giddy — god, he feels like a _child_ again. Except this time he's not watching Ne-Yo on concert, but actually face-to-face with a talented celebrity, sharing a handshake and a smile. All the caffeine in the world can't match this feeling. "I'm Zayn Malik. Listen to your show every night without fail, Mr. Horan."

 

"Niall," Niall corrects. "Call me Niall. We're, like, the same age, Zayn. It's weird."

 

Zayn belts out a laugh one decimeter short of insane. "Yeah, right, right, sorry, mate," he scratches absentmindedly at the crook of his neck. "Niall. I listen to your show every night. I can't live without it."

 

They inch up to the counter like clockwork. "Every night?" Niall asks incredulously. Then he narrows the pretty blue eyes Zayn never knew he had and nods, realizing something. "Well, I can believe that, actually. You knew me before you even saw me!" Zayn's cheeks burn with embarrassment at this. "That's sick, man."

 

At least he's impressed instead of creeped out. But it's true: Zayn heard his very first show two years ago, when his mum bought him a new radio/alarm clock ("You need this, since you _never_ get up on time," she scolded him that day) and he was aimlessly flipping through stations, trying to find one to ease him to sleep. That's when he came across a station full of calming house music mixes — and, like magic, he passed out while Niall's soft voice eased back into the forefront.

 

_And this is Niall Horan, signing off._

 

It's incredible how quick Early Morning Radio blew up. One moment it was just Niall fooling around, doing what he loves for a small audience, then he was interviewing big, upcoming pop stars and taking requests from music-hungry listeners. Zayn's never had the courage to call in and make a request, so all these years he's resorted to just letting any mix Niall plays carry him into slumber. Hell, even Niall's voice can make him fall fast asleep, and prior to the station's existence he always thought Irish accents achieved just the opposite. Niall's changed a lot in his life. Niall's _changed_ him.

 

And now here he is, and Zayn has these words just at the tip of his tongue, ready to pour out like vomit, but he's embarrassed about it. He can't help but feel mortified at how much he depends on a guy he's never met until now. If Niall hears this, every single word of it, what will he think? What will he say? Will his words match his thoughts? The idea of it is frightening. So Zayn goes with second best.

 

"Your station means a lot. Well, to me. I come from Bradford — just a little town up north? — and it's helped me, um, Early Morning Radio's helped me go to sleep." He shrugs. "I've always been a bit of an insomniac. I think your mixes cured me."

 

Niall surprises Zayn with two hard slaps to the back. Flashing straight, white teeth, he cheers, "That's great! I'm glad to help, mate." He leans in towards Zayn to speak clearly through the noise. "I'm trying to spread a message, you know? I'm trying to bring back jazz and house music and I think the station helps to spread that message." He raises his hands, gesticulating vaguely. "This era is full of mainstream pop music and all that, and I'm not trying to call pop music shit or anything like that, but we need to bring back what's worked, yeah? And jazz and house music has _worked_. Who says it can't be massive again?"

 

"It can," Zayn says.

 

"Exactly!" Niall points a finger at him. "You get it! You're the kind of people I need to bring on a new generation of music! Mix the old with the new, the fresh with the stale, and you've got a recipe for success on your hands. Yeah?"

 

Zayn nods on instinct, albeit slightly taken aback. He doesn't quite understand the passion — maybe he won't ever understand it — even if he _is_ a fan of jazz and house music himself, but there are some things he doesn't _need_ to understand; seeing now that Niall is so _passionate_ and excited about his goal of genre-mixing, about a new generation where jazz plays as often as pop or club music, is more than enough for him. This Niall Horan is twice as perfect than Zayn imagined. Like, maybe three-hundred times as perfect. He doesn't know what to do with him, with this recent finding; he doesn't have any friends to phone and gush about meeting _Niall Horan_ , and his mum and sisters won't care, seeing as they've left him here with his dad.

 

So this will be a present to himself. A precious reminder that, sometimes, life truly is worth living. "Yeah," comes his eventual answer. "I know you can do it."

 

Niall's smile is spread so wide across his face that it's practically blinding. And in his white jumper and faded blue jeans, he can easily double for a modern, fallen angel. "You know what? I think I have something to share with you, Zayn." They reach the counter, where the frazzled brunette eagerly awaits their order, but Niall's full attention is on him. "Do you have time to sit, have a drink and talk some more?"

 

Zayn gapes at him. "But don't you have somewhere to be?" He points dumbly at the spot where they met, by the door. "I mean, you looked like you were in a rush?"

 

Niall jerks one shoulder in a passive shrug. "Yeah — but no. She can wait." He looks over Zayn's shoulder, and when Zayn follows his eyes, they land on the antsy cashier. "Right, Eleanor?"

 

"Yeah, no problem," the girl — Eleanor? — says with a laugh. "You two enjoy yourselves. And I'll let Louis know you're back."

 

"Ace." Niall slips his hands into his pockets, meets Zayn's startled gaze. "So that's a yes? Do you have somewhere to be?"

 

Well, yeah. Classes start in five minutes, and he hasn't even ordered his coffee yet. But this is _Niall Horan_ we're talking about here, so how can Zayn possibly even let the thought to say no grace the tip of his tongue? Without worrying about the consequences, Zayn does it: he takes the leap of faith, brandishing the promise of an easier future onto his hypothetical timeline, and braces himself against the fall.

 

Zayn lets himself smile. "No, no — I mean, yeah. I can stay and chat." Niall smiles, Eleanor watching, until Zayn turns backs around to face her. "Two cups of coffee, please."

 

*

 

The early afternoon rush tapers off before Zayn even realizes it. He's left feeling jittery from three cups of coffee and sitting across the corner table from Niall Horan, his stomach full from the steady order of sweets that Niall won't stop buying. Most of the delicacies and cake lollies have been for Zayn — "You need to gain a little bit on you, there," Niall had teased after the third purchase of a double chocolate chunk brownie — but the music shared have been for both of them. One earbud in Zayn's ear, the other in Niall's, the two listen to the potential, never-heard-before mixes Niall has on his phone, him asking opinions on what to mix and Zayn eagerly dealing out suggestions.

 

"These are a bit of jazz swing," he explains to Zayn, pointing at the title of the playlist. "More upbeat, but I'll slow them down and fade the melody in and out with something more chill." Niall jerks one shoulder in a shrug. "Just trying something new, inventive. You think it'll be a hit?"

 

Zayn pops the final strawberry shortcake lolly in his mouth, chews. "Yeah, mate, definitely," he says through a full mouth. "This all sounds sick." He looks up from staring down at the playlist, meeting Niall's blue-eyes stare. Almost breathless: "You're amazing."

 

"Not even close," Niall pulls the earbud out of his ear, sitting up. "I've been busting my arse all month trying to do something new, but, like, _popular_. The feedback hasn't been going so well." Zayn watches as he pulls his coffee cake closer to himself, taking a piece off to eat it. "But I think I found just what I need. A _fan_. Like, a regular listener that can let me know what works and what doesn't."

 

It seems improbable that the feedback has been none too positive, seeing as every night Zayn falls in love with a new Niall Horan mix. Who can possibly dislike something so creatively structured that it bursts with complexity, with _talent_? He makes it look so easy, to just have a new mix ready at one in the morning every night, albeit it obviously isn't. Zayn takes his own earbud out, says, "I wouldn't mind giving you my opinion. I'm no musical genius, but I think I have an idea on what sounds wrong and what doesn't."

 

Niall's angelic light comes back; his eyes widening, light pouring in just in time to set fire to each iris, he asks, incredulously, "You'll do that for me?"

 

Zayn tries to play off the excitement, instead shrugs. "Without a doubt in my mind." Has it not been obvious from the beginning?

 

"Zayn," Niall starts with an exhale. And the _breathless husk of it_ — amazing how much better his name sounds when it rolls off Niall Horan's Irish-riddled tongue. "You're literally the best man in London right now. Seriously."

 

Zayn shyly turns his face away while Niall frantically looks through the pockets of his jumper. Within seconds he pulls out a C.D. and slides it across the crowded table to Zayn. While Zayn examines it, he explains, "One of the fresh mixes I've been wanting to air for this Saturday night. I was supposed to give it to one of my mates Louis tonight, but why the hell not? You take it and give it a listen."

 

 _N.H TRANCE,_ the plastic covering says in messy scribbles. The light reflects off the surface, nearly burns a hole through Zayn's widening eyes. " _N.H Trance_?" he repeats.

 

"Yeah. It's something new. Like, trance music back from the 1990s? Founded in Germany? But I wasn't sure about the feedback I'd get for it, 'cos, y'know, trance died _years_ ago. Let me know what you think?"

 

Holy _shit_. Zayn can barely _breathe_ with this sudden proposition on his hands. He stares at the case without moving, blinking, _seeing_ as Niall says, "Oh, right," and goes searching for something in his pockets. Then he's getting up and making a short promise to come back when Zayn's chest caves in on his erratically breathing heart, and, oh, _wow_ , this must be how it feels to die and go to heaven. This is the feeling of inner peace, absolute euphoria, overwhelming tranquility that follows one as they make their journey to visit God. Zayn's paralyzed with it, paralyzed in bliss that a razor blade has never given him before; his ears ring and eyeballs sting and throat itches when Niall comes back with a pen.

 

"Here we are," Niall cheers, then he's bending over Zayn and jotting down his e-mail underneath the _N.H TRANCE_. His skin smells like a surprising mixture of spicy cologne and cucumber body lotion. "That's my e-mail. Send me your thoughts anytime before Saturday, if you're up for it."

 

It hits Zayn again, the terribly crushing memory of the night he tore himself right open, scarred _KILL ME_ into his arm, when the world around the flat complex was still with sleep and Niall Horan's voice punctured the air. He can still feel the remains of the shock, the little ripples that splash by every once in awhile to remind him that he's been abandoned, that if no one wants him he's better off dead. The _KILL ME_ can't even begin to explain how he felt, how _it_ felt to watch himself dig those permanent words into his flesh — to know that the only one who truly hurt him was himself, and his mum or father or sisters had no play in his self-destruction.

 

The radio was all he heard that night. Yeah, there were the muffled gasps of pain that Zayn had to stifle, the rushing of bath water and the sound of his body dragging across the tiled bathroom floor, desperate to wash away the blood and shame and guilt. But all he can remember, plain as day itself, from that early morning was the radio, and each mix that played, one after another, and, especially, the way Niall spoke. He remembers exactly what he said, how he chose to introduce himself, how he transitioned from one playlist to the next — and that's all. The _KILL ME_ was forgotten until the following morning; the blood was washed away; the paper towels and bandages were hidden and disposed of; but the only evidence that that ever happened, that Zayn lost his mind again, is Niall's voice. That voice was his only comfort in the darkness of the flat and the darkness of his mind. That voice was his only friend.

   

Zayn's teetering on the brim of uncontrollable sobs when he takes the CD case in his hands, lifts it into his line of sight, and says, "'course I'm up for it."

 

He almost feels alive.

 

*

 

The first time he listens to _N.H TRANCE_ , he cries. Like, a snotty, whimpering cry, one that renders him unable to speak or see or move. It's not that it's sad or deep or moving — Zayn knows there are lyrics about summer rain and past loves and the likes — but just the fact that it's _for_ him, made by the guy who let him sleep and feel and smile when that's all he's ever wanted to do, reduces him to a pathetic heap of tears.

 

At ten p.m., when Yaser crawls into his own bedroom and shuts it without a single word, Zayn listens to the hour-long mix for the third time. He flickers in and out of sleep, only to replay the mix and fall back into slumber; then it's an hour-thirty until midnight, and Zayn passes out after tucking into some leftover Chinese takeaway.

 

He swears he's dreaming when his cell buzzes loudly against the glass coffee table. But then it does it again. And again. And again. And soon he's stirring atop of the duvets, reaching blindly to grab it and _make it stop_. The lack of rest has given him a shitty headache; the obnoxious buzzing sounds like a drill going off in his ears.

 

"Who the fuck," Zayn starts, disoriented and eyes half-lidded, as he taps _ACCEPT_ without bothering to look at the caller ID. He presses the phone to his ear, groans, "Hello?"

 

There's a huge commotion on the other line. It sounds like some kind of party, with the laughter and shouting and otherwise bustle of what's probably thirty-plus people. Zayn pulls the phone from his ear in the shock of sudden noise, then returns it to a place between his shoulder and ear, sitting up and repeating, louder, " _Hello_?"

 

A few seconds of nothing follows until somebody — a voice all too familiar — answers, "Hello? Zayn? You there?"

 

In a flash, Zayn's sleepiness escapes him. " _Liam_?"

 

More painful background shouting breaks through. It sounds as if Liam's saying something to somebody before his voice returns, "Hey, Zayn! Glad to hear from you again. Are you well?"

 

Zayn can't help the sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach, nor can he escape the unsettling suspicion to where this conversation is going. Even through the ear-piercing commotion he can hear the false cheerfulness to Liam's tone: he's up to something deceitful. But, wow, he's been so caught up in Niall Horan and the amazing trance mix that he pretty much forgot about Liam Payne's existence until now; just like that, all the crippling emotions associated with him taps Zayn on his shoulder, making him look.

 

"What do you want?" he bites out, hushed and urgent. He curls into himself by the radio, as if somehow Yaser can hear every word from all the way in his bedroom.

 

"Relax, love, I've just called to tell you — Lou, will you shut up, please? I'm on the phone. God, _yes_ , it's _him_ , so shut up, you fucking prat." Zayn sits anxiously while Liam blatantly muffles the receiver to talk privately with this 'Lou'. "Sorry about that. I've just called to tell you that I've got something... _interesting_ here that you need to see."

 

Zayn's eyebrows furrow. "Interesting?"

 

"Very. Very, _very_ interesting."

 

"Look, Liam, you do realize it's almost midnight, right? And I've got classes in the morning, as I'm a uni student." He pauses for effect. "Do you even understand what responsibilities are?"

 

More noise cuts through the conversation, drowning Liam out, until he tapers back in to say, "No need for the attitude, love, it's just really urgent —"

 

"Please stop calling me that."

 

"Fine. _Zayn_. But I _promise_ you have to come to _The Modern Pantry_ right now. Like, _right_ now. It's important."

 

Zayn's very reluctant (read: very) to fall into this trap. This is coming from the guy who tracked him down to his previous job _more than once_ just to get into his pants. This time he could show up to _The Modern Pantry_ or whatever only to be ambushed with personal questions and wandering hands. And he promised himself that he won't get into contact with Liam Payne ever again. He _promised_. His chest feels tight with the competing thoughts; he can listen to the tiny little tug that tells him to just go, just fall into the trap because, hey, maybe everything will somehow work out in the end. Maybe he'll grow fond of the name Liam Payne, to the charm of a fast-paced life that's packaged with being involved with a fit celebrity. Liam can change the course of his bleak future _forever_. Not only socially, like being seen in magazines and tabloids, but Zayn can have a 'thing'. A _someone_. He's never had that, before. Not a fake one, at least, unlike that one time in secondary school that a girl kissed him flat on the lips and held his hand for a week. But a real one. A lingering kiss, touches that leave his skin tingling and warm for days after, a smile that means much more than a fleeting hello or goodbye. His worlds can shift, settling him not in between, but within.

 

Though there's something else, too. Something important, dreadful: the paralyzing fear of being left behind, the fear of being rejected, forgotten — _a fling_. It's happened so many times before — Yaser, his mum, his classmates back from secondary and sixth form — that the thought of going back to that place threatens (another) relapse. How many more inconveniences (and 'inconveniences' is very much an understatement to be likened to what he's been through) can he take before it kills him? Literally _kills him_?

   

"Liam," Zayn musters. "I can't. I mean. I'm not going."

 

" _Zayn_ —"

 

"Have fun." He starts to hang up, just get it over with and turn his phone off while he's at it, but that little tug keeps him lingering on the line for _just_ a second longer, a second that may have been unnecessary if not for Liam's frantic answer.

 

"Wait, wait, don't hang up," he shouts over the voices behind him. There's a brief pause as Liam changes his location; as if switching a light, the noise instantly quiets. "Trust me on this, Zayn. You _need_ to come. Don't worry about me for once, yeah? This isn't even about me right now. You're going to miss out on an _incredible_ night if you hang up."

 

 _N.H TRANCE_ finishes without Zayn even realizing it. Silence fills both ends until the mix replays, Zayn's chest filling with a familiar tightness, like it knows something he doesn't. "Incredible night," he parrots, though, unlike all the other times he's mimicked Liam's choice of words, it's not said out of spite or mockery. The words leave him breathless, because _incredible night_. He doesn't remember the last time the adjective 'incredible' has been used without sarcasm. 'Incredible' has been for nights in which he woke up at three a.m. wishing his heart wasn't beating, or the nights he locked himself in the hallway bathroom of his mum's flat and left his insides open and vulnerable. Incredible. Incredible that he's done this to himself, done this to the Young Zayn that wanted to make something out of himself. _Incredible_.

 

For once, Zayn believes Liam. He believes him, because why should he lie about this? Maybe there's an ounce of doubt in Zayn's heart, but he actually doesn't want to give into it. He _wants_ to believe Liam. He wants to _live_.

 

The digital clock on the alarm reads eleven p.m. With the red letters providing the only source of light in the otherwise pitch black living room, Zayn Malik has never felt lonelier.

 

"Okay," he says, finally. "Pick me up outside of the convenience store."

 

"The one where we first met?"

 

Zayn holds his breath at the memory. It may not have been a good one, but, maybe, he wouldn't have it any other way.

 

"Yeah. That one."

 

*

 

When Zayn sees Liam again he's immediately reminded of the kiss; and it makes his teeth chatter in the way the cold doesn't. A late night chill is biting through his jean jacket, the hard plastic seat of the convenience store's seat is digging into his butt, but he doesn't feel any of it. His eyes fall on a casually-dressed Liam Payne climbing out of the cab.

 

Their eyes meet, Liam's look so concentrated and heavy that it makes Zayn look away, as if not to get kidnapped by it. He silently stands.

 

"Hey," he says.

 

"Hey."

 

Liam stuffs his hands into his — surprise, surprise — A&F blue jeans. Eyebrows furrowing, he leans back and forth in his boots.  And. Well. Zayn's a little shocked to see that he's not the only one feeling off about seeing him again; it's so unnatural to see _the_ Liam Payne acting out of his element that if Zayn was anywhere in his right mind he would take this lucky opportunity to tease him about it.

 

Unfortunately, no such luck.

 

"So." Liam motions towards the cab. "Ready to go?"

 

Zayn jerks his shoulders in a shrug. "Yeah. Let's go." He starts to walk towards the backseat, only to stop when Liam opens the door for him. "Don't do that."

 

Liam's mouth quirks up just a half of an inch and — yeah. Old Liam's back. "Do what? Politely assist you into the cab?"

 

"No," Zayn snatches the door from him, countenance on the verge of a glare. "Treat me like I can't open the door by myself. I have arms." He slides across the back seat and fixates his gaze ahead.

 

"That you do," Liam says, with the tiniest little sigh. He closes the door behind Zayn.

 

The drive to the restaurant is filled with idle chatter between Liam and the cab driver. Zayn watches the blur of stoplights and neon lights rush past them, pedestrians and cars burning against the backdrop of a city night. Women in their fur-lined coats and matching boots parade the streets with starry eyes and freed ambitions; the men cluster together for warmth and protection, cigarettes between their fingers and intoxication clouding their minds. Like this, when it's nearly midnight, London seems to pulse with energy and life that the day can only dream to match. Like this, Zayn's not a broken fragment, but a puzzle piece, with a purpose and a customized invitation.

 

Bradford is not and will never be as grandiose as a city like London. Here, it's so easy to get swallowed whole, disappearing amongst every other unknown face in an unforgiving and individualist community. Yet, unlike Bradford, he's never felt more included.

 

Zayn loses himself in the thought until he's slapped back into current day by the sudden brake and Liam's voice, albeit distant, telling him, "We're here."

 

Zayn looks up just in time to find Liam standing by the open back door, his eyebrows furrowed as he examines Zayn concernedly. "You haven't said a single word since we got in the cab. Are you okay?"

 

Zayn watches the worry fold wrinkles into Liam's forehead before he replies, coolly as he can, "Yeah."

 

Zayn gets out the car without bothering to scold Liam for opening the door for him. Because even if he wanted to, the view of an impressively crowded, three-story restaurant distracts him from the scolding. Despite the thick clusters of customers, the place looks cute and quaint, with its stained, rectangular windows and aged bricks. All of the tables outside are taken, even in this unforgiving cold, which says a lot for what he's about to face going indoors. Zayn's head swirls from the overwhelming atmosphere, like he's being pulled every which direction with his battling senses, until Liam presses a hand to the small of his back and leads him through waiting guests and straight into the restaurant.

 

 _The Modern Pantry_ is, to say the (very) least, lively. A makeshift kitchen sits just ahead, past the rows of blindingly-white 4-seat tables that lead all the way down, from wall to wall. Waiters and waitresses dressed in matching white uniforms scurry with wine bottles and glasses and platters of food, looking like blurs of cotton balls past Zayn's peripheral vision. Not knowing where the hell to go — or what to even do — he crumbles to the mercy of Liam and allows him to guide him where they need to be.

 

"Liam Payne," Liam shouts, through the commotion, to the hostess. "I'm sitting at the table near the window," he points in the general direction, the frantic hostess only offering a fleeting glance. "Set up another spot at the table, will you? I've got another guest."

 

"Right away, Mr. Payne," the hostess snatches a stack of menus from the stand and silently gestures to a party of three to follow her. "Just a moment, please."

 

 _Another guest_. Meaning, more than one. Zayn, confused, wants to ask Liam who he's planning to introduce him to (he swears to fucking god that if it's his parents or past flings he's walking _straight out_ ; but not without punching Liam straight in his nose first), but the place is so loud that trying to talk to him through it will only cause unnecessary strain. So he resorts to silent confusion, allowing himself to be led, next, to the corner table, where the voices are quieter and the air is filled with an exclusive silence.

 

"Would you look who it is," Liam chirps when he approaches the table. "Zayn Malik, everyone." Zayn raises his eyes from his Vans just in time to stare ruddy cheeks and baby blue eyes straight in the face. He falls into startled stillness for just a few seconds before he recognizes those ruddy cheeks and angelic eyes as belonging to Niall Horan's.

 

"Zayn," Niall cheers at the top of his lungs. A few nearby tables glance over at theirs while Niall jumps to his feet and squeezes past one of the brunette boy's chair to get to Zayn. "I didn't know you knew Liam? What a small world!"

   

Zayn lets Niall pull him into a comfortable hug, still overcome by shock. How does Liam Payne, the pushy, cocky, insatiable arsehole, know talented, amiable, lovely Niall Horan? And how are they familiar enough to spend some late night dinner together? When Niall pulls back from the hug, Zayn looks from the huge grin on his face to Liam, then back to Niall, and then over Niall's shoulder when the brunette opens his mouth to speak.

 

"Zayn Malik, huh," the bloke drawls, almost mockingly. He's leaning back in his chair, dressed in a white tee with the short sleeves rolled, his grey jacket hanging off his shoulders. His hair's up in a stiff, gelled quiff, a beard growing above his upper lip and across his jaw. With one eyebrow quirked, a smile playing at his countenance, he immediately rubs Zayn the wrong way. "I've heard _all_ about you." He studies Zayn up and down, slow, slow, slow.

 

"That's Louis. Ignore him," Liam says into Zayn's ear, and then, louder, "Have a seat, mate! I hope you like garlic bread appetizer, 'cos that's all we have for you at the moment."

 

Niall eagerly guides Zayn down into a chair across from Liam's, but adjacent to Niall's and Louis'. Beside Zayn is a guy with huge, green eyes, a red mouth, and a wild mess of curls, only slightly tamed by a plaid headband made out of what looks like a shirt. He's got a tacky pin-striped shirt on — clashing patterns? Zayn's never met a bloke so bold — and dark wash jeans a few sizes too small. His entire visage lights up upon sight of Zayn, his lips parting in exaggerated surprise.

 

"Oh my god," Curly gasps. "He's gorgeous, Li."

 

And. What? Then. _Oh_. Zayn's cheeks burn as soon as he realizes that this strange man pretty much made a pass at him, those green eyes wide and overbearing and practically burning a hole into the side of his face. He raises his eyes to Niall for a silent plea of help, but Niall only tips his head back and laughs pleasantly, attracting unwanted attention once again.

 

Louis purses his lips, giving nothing away, while Liam gives Curly a shy smile. "I told you so. Those tabloid pics weren't any good." He looks to Zayn, only for Zayn to turn his head away, grabbing at a slice of garlic bread and tearing into it to busy himself with something.

 

Curly doesn't fucking look away. The longer he stares, the more uncomfortable Zayn feels. "You're right," Curly breathes. "Are you a part time pizza boy, part time model? You have to tell me."

 

Zayn refuses to look at him, only shakes his head. "I'm not a model, no. Not a pizza boy anymore, either, after, you know," he glances at Niall, Liam, then back to his garlic bread. "uni started up again."

 

Curly snaps his attention to Louis, much to Zayn's relief, and says urgently, "You have to scout him, Lou. You can't let this talent go to waste. I won't let you."

 

Louis arrogantly cuts into his pasta as he almost instantly recites, "Guessing by how far he comes up to Liam, he's too short. And besides, even if he _was_ the correct height," he makes a fleeting glance at Zayn's collarbone before looking down at his plate again, "that arabic tattoo would erase all his chances of making it in my agency."

 

"Guys," Liam warns. "Stop."

 

" _What_?" Curly ignores Liam's plea, gapes at Louis instead, then at Zayn. "He's the perfect height? I mean — I'm no expert at this, but _look_ at him, yeah? He's got that. That _face_. And his body —?"

 

"It's fine," Zayn interrupts. "It's okay. I don't even want to model, yeah? I'm fine as a full time uni student."

 

Niall sits forward in his seat, pressing one hand on the cluttered table wherever he can fit it. "Speaking of Zayn Malik," he starts lightheartedly. Thank God for Niall Horan. "Did you listen to my mix, mate? What'd you think?"

 

 _Finally_. A topic Zayn's more than comfortable with talking about. He lights up at the thought, resting his garlic bread on a napkin in front of him. "In fact, yeah, I have. Three times, actually."

 

"Really?" Niall's smile is wide and joyous. "And how was it?"

 

Zayn can't help but match his vigor, visage mimicking Niall's. " _Incredible_. Like, you had me tearing up it was so good. You're a champ."

 

Niall raises a fist to the air, nearly falling back in his chair at the force of it. Tilting his chin to the roof, he shouts, "And we've got a winner!"

 

Louis looks up from his food at Niall. His fork is raised to his mouth when he asks, "Your mix? I thought you were sending that my way sometime this week?"

 

Niall lowers his fist. "Well, I _was_ , then I ran into this good, good lad on my way to drop the CD off with Eleanor. Then we got to talking, and turns out Zayn's my number one fan. Huge coincidence, yeah?"

 

"Yeah," Louis eyes Zayn, the glint in his blue eyes telling him Louis knows something Zayn doesn't. A look that twists Zayn's stomach into knots. "Quite the coincidence."

 

"I didn't know you liked Early Morning Radio?" Liam asks, before taking a sip of his ice water.

 

Zayn shrugs. "There's plenty you don't know about me." He returns to his garlic bread, trying (and failing) to disregard all the eyes on him. He feels the judgement practically _radiating_ off of everyone at the table — more specifically, a certain quiff-haired bloke's judgement.

 

A waitress eventually gets Zayn's spot at the table sorted, then takes his drink and food order. Once he hesitantly decides on water and some cheese sticks, the waitress rushes off, leaving subsequent silence to befall the party. Zayn keeps his eyes leveled on Liam's hands, as they hold a fork and knife and cut into his fish. It's anything to not watch this peculiar clique of the Rich & Famous watch _him_.

 

"So, Liam," Louis starts, and that tone of voice doesn't sound all too friendly — unless sarcasm is a sub branch of benevolence. "I suppose you were right. This new... _lad_ of yours _is_ quite easy on the eyes."

 

Liam shoots Louis an uncomfortable look, then widens his baby brown eyes in a warning. Though he answers, "That he is," pleasantly, the challenging expression remains.

 

Louis appears unfazed by it, just takes a delicate sip of his wine and smiles knowingly around it. "You know," he says after a swallow. "The paps are gonna _love_ this. Twice already you're seen in public with this Zayn Malik, and if they catch word about how you feel?" His eyebrows raise. "Oh, that's gonna be good."

 

"Come on, guys," Niall interjects. "we're trying to enjoy a lovely dinner with our equally-lovely new mate." He looks to each face for assistance.

 

Curly reaches across the table to nudge Louis; he remains rigid. "Lou," he coos. "Eat."

 

"It's just dinner, Louis. Relax." But Liam's no longer looking at him, jaw tight and grip firm around his glass.

 

"Is it now?" Louis presses. " _Is_ this just a dinner? Why has this Zayn Malik come into our lives out of nowhere, if this is just a dinner?" A short, tense silence follows before he continues: "You amaze me more and more everyday, Liam. What is endgame? Where are you even going with this? Because I think we're _all_ interested to know."

 

"What's your problem with me, man?"

 

As if in terror, everyone jerks attention towards the otherwise quiet Zayn. Their faces fall, surprised at the force to his tone, unlike Louis, who just glares.

 

"What's my problem? _Why are you here_ , darling? If you're not interested in Liam, why'd you pick up the phone? Why'd you come with him here tonight?" Louis' full attention is fixated on Zayn, gaze leveled and much too stern for anyone's liking. "Are you stringing him along? Playing with his feelings for a chance at the limelight? Because last I heard you hated his _guts_."

 

Zayn's skin breaks out in a mix between nervous and adrenaline-induced sweat. "I don't _hate_ his guts," is all he can muster, and — shit. Louis' just trying to be a protective friend, he knows, but the rage bubbling up inside him won't go away; the intensity of it all — the shame, the anger, the embarrassment and the anxiety — spins his head 'round and 'round, tightening a good grip on his throat. This is obvious to him, amongst all the confusion: he doesn't know _why_ he came. So how in the hell can he explain his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ decisions to somebody else, if he can't ever figure himself out?

 

This back and forth with Liam is supposed to be over. So maybe Zayn _is_ stringing him along for a fruitless ride. But it's definitely not for a moment in the limelight; he's wanted to avoid attention from the paparazzi since the very first moment he discovered Liam Payne was a well-renowned model. And he can tell Louis that right now — he's not interested in whatever fame that promises him by sitting at this table — but it won't come out right. He'll stumble, stutter, pass out from the pressure, maybe, and it won't be convincing enough to change Louis' opinion on him.

 

"Right," Louis pries. "he told me over and over you didn't want to pursue a relationship. Don't lie just because all your other lies have caught up to you."

 

 _He promised that this night wasn't about him_ , sits in Zayn's mouth, eager to come out and grace everyone's ears. _He promised he just had something to show me_. But the words don't leave his lips, and instead he sits there in tense, anxiety-ridden silence where he can barely breathe and all the pairs of eyes on him feel like needles jabbing into his skin and he feels so light-headed he won't be surprised if he suddenly floats up and implodes.

 

Niall's disappointed in him, probably. Not even Liam, of whom tried again and again to protect him from Louis' wrath, says anything. There's this overwhelming silence instead, boisterous, animated laughter all around them while here, at this table, time stands still. London has shrugged him off, leaving him, floundering once again, to his own devices.

 

"I'm sorry I came then," Zayn hears himself say before he stands, kicking the chair back and hurriedly making his way through full tables and cotton ball-white waiters and waitresses and perfectly careless conversation to the front. He ducks his head, refuses to look anyone in the face incase they can see the crushing defeat and shame of the night in the pools of his eyes; he feels like he could pass out right then and there.

 

The cold air of a miserable London night slaps Zayn in the face as soon as he steps out; it must be punishment for being such a dense prat, coming here only to rush straight back out not even an hour later. He's done a damn good job at keeping himself off the smokes for a year and a half now, but all he wants to do right now _is_ smoke — anything to keep from digging his own jagged nails into his arm in a terrible bout of self-loathing. Anything to keep from self-destructing right on the sidewalk right in front of a busy _The Modern Pantry_ , the long queue readily-available witnesses to a bubbling mental breakdown.

 

Without thinking twice, he starts down the sidewalk. There are a steady stream of cars speeding past him on the road, lights blinding and bright against the dark backdrop, but not as many pedestrians as he'd expect on a London night. He stops at the corner of Albemarle Way and leans against the brick, desperate to catch his erratic breath. _It's not that big of a deal_ , he tells himself over and over until it's all he's thinking about, how all bad things pass and maybe what happened isn't as serious as he's making it out to be. But that initial panic remains, resolute, and he can't shove it away from the forefront of his mind no matter how hard he tries. He has to face it: he fucked up. He's a fuck up.

 

He's a fuck up.

 

"Piss off," Zayn shouts to Liam without looking back — he had a terrible feeling he was being adamantly followed. "Just piss off, Liam." Ducking his head, as if a startled Liam Payne can see the wet gleam in his eyes from where he is — just a stretch behind him — Zayn presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and rubs furiously. "You're the last person I want to see right now."

 

"I'm so _sorry_ , Zayn," shrills Liam's frantic voice. "Truly. Louis' sorry, too; he's just — he's just a difficult one, yeah? But he doesn't hate you or anything of the sorts. In fact, I think Louis _likes_ you —"

 

" _Are you taking the piss_?" The crushing twist to Zayn's chest flickers from pain to anger, and soon the rage is clouding every rational thought, ready to make him snap and smash his knuckles into Liam's pretty little nose. And it's not even Liam he's particularly mad at — albeit he hadn't even tried to pull his rabid dog Louis off of him when Zayn was pretty much being interrogated — but it's like someone falling upon you at the wrong time, and even if you want to pull yourself together so you don't say or do something the innocent bystander doesn't deserve, it's almost impossible to balance your emotions: you're a fisherman stuck in the middle of the ocean, deadly storm engulfing you.

 

Liam falls quiet. The distant sound of car engines blaring rise between them.

 

Zayn makes himself take a deep breath, and when he lets it out through his nose, his voice is calm. "Why'd you bring me here, Liam. To be humiliated?"

 

"No."

 

" _Why_?"

 

"Heard from Niall a lad named Zayn was his biggest fan. Thought you'd appreciate me setting up a dinner between you two."

 

Zayn finally turns to look over his shoulder at Liam. Liam's got his hands in his jeans pockets, rocking back and forth in his shoes. He's got a tight jaw and furrowed brows, but he can't seem to look Zayn directly in the face. It's the same troubled look he had when Louis caught him in his impulsive discrepancies: the shameful, childlike pout. Zayn has to turn away again, like he'd seen something he shouldn't.

 

"It wasn't a dinner between _us_ , mate. It was a dinner between me, Niall, Louis, that odd, curly-headed one, _and_ you. Don't lie to me."

 

Liam's proceeding silence is unnerving. An all too familiar feeling of dread — because Zayn didn't want to accept it, just wanted to continue to pretend like Liam didn't have ulterior motives and he himself didn't get caught up in Liam's infatuation for him — settles like a lump in his throat; he dares himself to look back into Liam's shame-filled face, traces of guilt threaded into it. He knew it. They both knew it: Zayn came for the excitement, the promise of something more, to fulfill the wish he's kept since he lived with his mum in that Bradford flat, and. And he came for _Liam_. He came to see Liam again, to tie the metaphorical anchor to his ankles and jump in an ocean, keep himself trapped at the floor so that he can't swim back up to safety. Zayn was prepared to ease Liam Payne in.

 

But why? Because he's desperate? Because he's lonely? Because if Liam Payne's really prepared to dedicate himself only to Zayn, to eventually fall in love with him, maybe he'd abandon the razors? Because maybe he'd fall in love, too?

 

Liam Payne will always have slimy, ulterior motives. Whether it's to win Zayn over, to commit to a relationship, or to have a shag then leave, Liam's only after his own goals. It's been like that since Zayn met him. And, yeah, Zayn has ulterior motives, too. They're both selfish and pushy and arseholes — so why not? Why not just use each other until they're both satisfied? Louis may have been wrong about Zayn wanting Liam for fame and money, but one thing he was right about is this: Zayn is sneaky, deceitful.

 

It just took Zayn this long to realize it.

 

"Yeah," Liam eventually says; he was quiet so long Zayn nearly forgot he’s still standing there. "Yeah, I wanted you to come out with me. You know that, Zayn. But you wouldn't have even thought about coming if I didn't tell you I had a surprise, right?"

   

"Yeah."

   

" _Yeah_. So when Niall told me about how you were the biggest fan he met today, it was perfect. I could see you again... I just didn't know it'd backfire."

 

Zayn throws his hands up in disgust. "You mean your mate Louis so viciously attacking me? Me neither."

 

Liam rubs the palm of his hand over his short haircut and gives Zayn a tight smile. "No. Not that. It was you. You practically _drooling_ over him."

 

Zayn's eyebrows raise so high they might’ve fallen off his face. "Who? _Louis_?"

 

" _Niall_ , Zayn. You're practically, like, in love with him. You wouldn't stop smiling at him for the life of you."

 

It's like hearing something so outrageous you have to sit and let it process before you realize that it is, indeed, what you thought you heard. He doesn’t even know where to _begin_ with his response with this air-headed man; it feels almost useless trying to explain himself, because he’d have to start with the most obvious response and work his way up. Exasperated, he says, “I can’t be _in love_ with him. I barely even _know_ him.”

    “Well, yeah, obviously —”

    “And if I had to choose between you and Niall it’d definitely be _him_ , without a doubt in my mind.” Zayn breathes slowly out of his mouth, a small, tired sigh of sorts, then looks at Liam carefully. “Niall’s an incredible guy; he has an _actual_ talent, not some vapid job that pays him to look good.”

    The look on Liam’s face dissipates into an expression of pain and shock. Zayn fights the guilt building up in the pit of his stomach, hesitantly goes on to say, “You know you haven’t given me much reason to like you, Liam. And while I’d choose Niall over you... I came here for a reason, didn’t I?”

    “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

    “I _mean_ ,” Zayn says. “If I really wanted absolutely nothing to do with you — which I did, by the way, like, a week ago — I would’ve hung up on you and gone back to sleep. I was _sleeping_ , mate. I don’t interrupt my sleep for nothing.”

    Liam’s eyebrows knit together, raising a hand to pause the conversation. “So, let me make this clear. My head needs to wrap around this.”

    Zayn glances down the street at passing-by pedestrians, then back at Liam. “Okay. I’ll wait.”

    “You’d choose Niall over me.”

    “Yeah.”

    “You think I’m talentless and vapid.”

“I mean —” Liam gives him direct eye contact, a serious glint to his eyes. “yeah. I guess.Yes.”

    “But you interrupted your so-called ‘never-interrupt-for-anybody’ sleep to come out with me tonight? The ‘talentless,’ ‘vapid’ bloke you’re trying to avoid?” He pauses. “Well, I guess avoid up until this point.”

    Zayn visibly retracts to this statement. He opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs, then opens it again. “Sure.” He’ll bite, albeit he knows where this is heading.

    “I—?” Liam lets his raised hand fall. “But — _why_?”

    It’s not making any sense. Zayn knows that. He’s never really made sense since the first time he put a blade to his arm, which, yeah, it’s no excuse for the rollercoaster of confusion he’s putting Liam through, but — can he really blame him? Can he imagine living practically all of his life in the shadows, unnoticed, feeling terribly unloved, and then suddenly all this attention is thrown onto him from one person? And even though this person comes off as a stalker, is demanding, pushy, wants something out of him that he’s not currently willing to give, _it’s attention_. Better than nothing, right? So why not come out tonight? It could’ve even been a _good_ night, if not for Louis.

Though maybe Louis is right to be suspicious of him. Look what he’s gotten himself into.

So, “I don’t know,” is what comes out of Zayn’s mouth, and he doesn’t bother to correct it. ‘I don’t know’ is the best Liam’s getting, if that’s the best he’s managed to give himself.

    The silence between them is, once again, heavy. But somehow Liam gathers himself in under ten seconds, breaking out into an incredulous smile. “I don’t understand you,” he starts. “You avoid me for weeks, then you’re interrupting sleep to have dinner with me — _us_ — then you’re calling me vapid and talentless and calling Niall a better catch... then you try to excuse all your contradictions with a ‘I don’t know’? Do you think I’m just going to nod, say ‘alright’, and walk away?”

    Zayn shrugs one shoulder up, rubbing at the crook of his neck. “I was hoping you would.”

    “Do you even _want_ to make this work?”

    “Make _what_ work?”

    “Zayn. Please. You came out here for a reason more than that little ‘secret’ I promised you.”

    Zayn’s at a lost of words again. After a moment of thinking, trying to scramble the mess in his head into something comprehensible, he gives up and turns away. “I don’t know,” he says again — and this time he means it. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking _know_. Make ‘this’ work? What was ‘this’? They’ve been a dysfunctional couple (and couple is a word used lightly) since day one; Zayn goes from absolutely not wanting ‘this,’ to wanting ‘this’... and he still doesn’t know what ‘this’ is. He thinks, maybe, he’s not ready for the responsibility of relationships. Of any _kind_ of relationship, from friends to romance to otherwise. He’s just better off alone. It’s easier and simpler, and it requires no head-scrambling, no confusion.

    Zayn Malik belongs alone.

    “Don’t start with that ‘I don’t know’ bullshit again, Zayn,” Liam says, sounding annoyed and exasperated and just. Zayn can’t do this. He can’t. “You _know_ what you want; you just don’t want to accept it, do you? You don’t want to accept that you want to make this work out.”

    “Don’t flatter yourself,” Zayn starts, but Liam interrupts.

    “Think about it. Just try to think about it, yeah? And actually try?” Zayn sees Liam’s outreached hand coming the instant it lifts, but he decides to let it touch him, brush its fingertips on his shoulder and slide upwards. He presses it into the crook of the neck, where Zayn was massaging into, hard enough to feel his pulse. When Zayn closes his eyes instead of pulling away, Liam advances, one step after another until Zayn’s back is against the wall and Liam’s chest is a mere inch from his. Liam’s lips nearly brush his nose. “I want to show you I’m different.”

    “Different?” Zayn scoffs, though there’s no bite to it, just a gentle exhale of disbelief. “From what?”

    “From what you say I am. I’m not vapid.” Zayn scoffs again, eyes still closed. “I’m _not_ a creepy stalker, either. You just have to give me a chance to prove it to you. Please.”

    “Liam, sto —”

    “ _Zayn_.” The force to it snaps his eyes open, and in an instant their gazes are locked. “You didn’t even give yourself a chance to think about it? Like, think about it before you say something? This isn’t a business contract, or shit like that. I’m just asking for a chance to make you the happiest man in the world.” When Zayn rolls his eyes, Liam laughs shyly, shrugging. “I exaggerated some to get my point across, but, yeah, you get it. You have my number. I’ll wait for your call, whatever the answer may be.”

    And, with that, Liam’s warm hand is gone from his neck. Zayn watches, leaning against the cold brick wall, as Liam turns to leave. Hands in pockets, head ducked against the coming wind, he never looks back. He turns the corner, just like that. Zayn almost can’t believe it. He expected something more, something more like Liam — grandiose, overbearing — but his exit is terribly anticlimactic.

    It’s left at that. He has to think about it.

    He has to think about _this_.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zayn returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit, im back??? im sorry im so trash guys, ill make sure the next chapter is out waaaay sooner than this one. it's amazing how long it took me to write one of my shortest chapters, but i had A LOT of thinking and backtracking and overall heavy thinking to do for this one. 
> 
> doezayn @ tumblr, if you wanna discuss anything.

    The worn inside covers of Zayn’s comic books all have the same, slanted script written in their top left corners _: Boy Wonder_. His mum took the time to brand each one, just incase his books got mixed up in his school friends’ copies and they had to differentiate between each copy. This was before, way back in secondary and sixth form, when she never realized he didn’t even have friends to share comics with. She just assumed.

    But it was fine, because the books kept him company, and that slanted _Boy Wonder_ reminded him that he wasn’t alone, no matter how far away from home he was.

    Practically everything about Zayn’s childhood was different from the present. It was like living in some kind of alternate dimension: his mother couldn’t bare the thought of sending him away, no matter how elite boarding school was compared to his tiny little hometown; his sisters always depended on him for dating advice (as if he could somehow see into the mind of every boy’s head) -- even Doniya, albeit she never liked to admit that her younger brother provided great insight. He never had true friendships, but he felt comfortable talking to others when he needed to, and his teachers knew he existed.

And then there was Yaser. Zayn’s very first Qu’ran came from Yaser’s own, well-maintained collection; it was old, with the edges worn down and text faded, but Zayn couldn’t have been happier for it, because just the act of it being handed down to him, at such a young age, was a sign of trust, of growing up: Yaser never let him have his own copy in worry that he wouldn’t care for it properly, wouldn’t treat the book as serious as it was meant to be. But then he did. And with this newfound maturity, their relationship tightened into something on a different level from Yaser and his sisters.

    If Zayn was Boy Wonder, Yaser was Batman. He was there to help him run errands, to wake up just as the sun pushed its way into the sky and pray with him, to cook breakfast for the rest of his family before he and his sisters went to school and his mum and dad to work. It almost feels like a very long, confusing dream now, thinking back on it. Every pillar that kept their dynamic up on its foundation fell, one by one. First it was the arguments between his parents growing from brief little disagreements behind their bedroom door to full-blown shouts in the middle of dinner time; then it was Yaser picking up a second job, then a third, then becoming more distant with everyone, staying out later and later into the night just to avoid more scream matches with Trisha; finally, Yaser decided to not pray with Zayn in the mornings anymore (there were more and more excuses, until Yaser just finally admitted that he had other things to be doing), to not read the Qu’ran with him, to no longer help him learn Urdu or Arabic.

    There was static. Silence. Life in that little Bradford home stretched on like a flat line, void of life. Safaa and Waliyha drew closer to him for comfort, while Doniya just pulled away. Trisha only knew to tiptoe, leaving as little evidence of her presence as possible. Yaser mentally left the family for a few quiet years before he did physically.

    The only person his eventual departure sounded the loudest to was Zayn. He’s been deaf ever since.

*

    He used to ask himself incessantly, over and over until it lost meaning, why it had to be him. Why him? Why then? Because no one would believe him? Because it seemed so far-fetched, so improbable, that out of four siblings, three of them being the obvious choice, he would’ve been the victim?

Honestly, it was so simple. From behind, it didn’t matter what parts he had, or how different he was from Safaa, or Waliyha, or Doniya. He still had long, soft hair, still had slender shoulders that didn't quite broaden out yet, still had golden skin under the thick layer of darkness his bedroom laid out over them, still had a squeaky voice that puberty had yet to touch. At the time, he could’ve be anyone, anything that he wanted him to be.

    And, really, if it had to be any of them, a part of Zayn is relieved. He’s since stopped asking.

*

 

    He spends his Friday afternoon revising. Yaser has gone to work, leaving the flat clean, peaceful, and quiet enough for him to get his work done without sitting in the bitter cold university library. Missing one of his Sociology lectures put him back a little more than he had hoped (but he’ll never, ever regret doing that for a chance to properly meet his idol, _the_ Niall Horan), though having the entire evening to complete it sort of offset the pain of a bigger workload.

    _N.H Trance_ is on, as usual. He may have had the worst night in his entire London career last night, and fought the urge to self-harm by insistently slapping his arms and blasting Niall Horan’s EMR in his ears until the crack of dawn, but the mix still makes him feel light and jittery. Like he’s somewhere far away from here, with his mum and sisters, piled on a couch spending quality time napping after devouring some takeaway. Like Yaser doesn’t exist and nightmares of the past don’t exist.

    He’s already started on the e-mail he promised to send Niall about the mix; he had a chance to speak to him briefly about it at the horrible dinner the night before, but now that he has all of his thoughts collected and can deliver actual constructive criticism, there’s no better time than today to polish it off, a day before his given deadline.

    Zayn turns away from his Sociology textbook to his phone, where the e-mail is already half-written:

_To: niall.horanJ@xxx.com_

_From: malikzed@xxx.com_

_Subject: Review of N.H. Trance_

_Body:_

_Hey, Niall. It’s Zayn. I just wanted to let you know that your recent mix is incredible. You transition into each song so effortlessly I can tell youre a master at this. I’ll give it a good 9.5/10. But I wanted to give some pointers too:_

_\- some of the tracks sound louder than the others. just work on the balance a little bit and it’d be great._

_-_

_-_

_it was great meeting you, and i hope to see you again. youre an amazing dude._

    He just has to add in those two extra pointers, fix up some of the grammar, and it’ll be ready. _After I finish this_ , he promises to himself, looking back at the extra 30 pages in the textbook he has to finish reading and taking notes on, then turns his phone back on its face. That way he won’t be tempted to turn it back over and neglect his studies.

    A few more hours of boring coursework passes (N.H Trance has played a good 3 times now, and Zayn’s not sure if he’s telling himself he isn’t bored of it by now, or if he actually isn’t) before his eyes start glazing over. Okay. Time to take a break, maybe grab something to eat from the kitchen, watch the telly. Zayn turns off the CD Player on the way to the fridge, snatches the only apple from the bottom shelf, and munches on it while making his way back into the living room.

    The telly turns on some sports channel. Zayn fucking hates sports. He switches through a few shitty channels before curiosity gets the better of him, and he clicks his way to the superficial tabloid channel. There’s this segment going on about red carpet outfit malfunctions happening to celebrities he doesn’t know or care about, but he leaves it there anyway, settling down on his makeshift bed with his phone in one hand, apple in the other.

    “ _And look at this super embarrassing nipple slip actress Caroline Flack had on the 2015 fashion awards red carpet yesterday. Her golden gown from Chanel’s new line looks amazing against her St. Bart’s tan; too bad mini-me stole the show! Lookin’ great, Caroline!_ ”

    Zayn gives the censored nipple a cursory glance before returning to his e-mail to Niall. He’s on his final pointer, thinking over the best way to tell his biggest hero the middle tracks become a little lackluster and similar (not that Zayn minds, because he’s usually asleep by this part of the mix), when he briefly hears, “ _The Modern Pantry_ ,” in the background of his thoughts and looks up from his cell to tune in.

    “Isn’t that the _pizza boy_ from a couple of weeks ago?” one of the two hosts says to the other, a faux confused expression etched onto his botoxed face. On the green screen behind them is a blown up collage of Zayn and Liam entering _The Modern Pantry_ , sitting at the table with Louis, Niall, and Curly, and then Zayn leaving the restaurant with his head ducked, Liam just a few steps behind, eyebrows furrowed and mouth open on a shout.

    “Oh my god,” the other host says. Despite the inflection in her voice, her facial expression remains stiff. “It is! Maybe the pizza uniform was a disguise? Who _is_ this mystery boy? And why have we never seen Liam Payne with him before? We _have_ to know!”

    The phone in Zayn’s hand slips from his grip, landing on his bedsheet with a dull thud. Holy. _Fuck_. If his face wasn’t clear in the first picture they have of him, it sure is clear as day now. So clear he can see the confusion on his face as Liam guides him inside and past the long queue of London-goers, the furrow of his brows while he sits at the table with everyone, Niall with his fist in the air and head tipped back, and, _fuck_ , worst of all: the paps got his face almost _straight-on_ when he was making a quick departure. Like, his Arabic tattoo painfully obvious on his collarbone, overgrown, ink-black hair whipping around his face, caramel eyes bright against the lights around him clear.

    _They got his face._

    And he never even noticed.

    “But whoever he is,” the male host is saying, when Zayn pulls himself out of his head and back into reality. “he’s _gorgeous_ , isn’t he?”

    “Oh, he definitely is! Look at those dreamy _eyes_.” She lets out a heavy sigh for effect. “Rob, we have to get this man’s name. Pronto.”

    ‘Rob’ confirms that they’ll do just that, while Zayn brainstorms the quickest, most cost-effective way to get the fuck out of London. Can he even go out in public now? Will he be harassed by paparazzi begging to know his name and his relationship with Liam Payne and co.? How can he live a normal university life now?

    Just as Zayn is about to google the cheapest motels just out of the city, he stops himself. Wait. Maybe he’s just exaggerating. He needs to calm down. It’s not like he’s an overnight celebrity or anything; it’s just some shitty, viewer-hungry tabloid channel doing a brief story on him. It’s not like his cell is going crazy with calls and tex --

    His phone buzzes from its place on his makeshift bed. Zayn jumps just about halfway up to the roof. _Okay,_ Zayn thinks, taking a deep breath to collect himself, _it’s just a coincidence_. No biggie. It’s probably just Yaser asking for him to turn off his bedroom light for him, or something. There’s no one else who would text him.

    Zayn checks the message.

    _Liam Arse Pain: You should try to disappear for a little while._

    Oh, _fuck_.

    Zayn starts on a frantic text back that he doesn’t have the means to just ‘disappear’ right now, and ‘disappearing’ would mean staying in this stupid flat all day, having to deal with his father, but a call interrupts him mid-word and sends adrenaline coursing through his veins. Shit! Who _else_ has his number now?

    He picks up without bothering to check the caller ID.

“Hello?” his voice cracks on the way out.

    “Zayn, love?”

    One moment his head is spinning with so many thoughts, so many decisions, so much fear and confusion and frustration that he doesn’t even recognize the voice on the other line. Then everything just. _Stops_. A few seconds of quiet where all the frantic brood once was dissipates, leaves him empty.

    He gives himself another few seconds to breathe.

    “Mum?”

    She lets out an audible sigh of relief. “Zayn. I’ve been trying to reach you for a few months now. Have you been well?”

    Well. No better time than now than to be honest. “No.”

    “Oh.” She doesn’t speak for about three deafening seconds. “I truly am sorry to hear that, love. But I was calling to ask if you’d like to come home for the holidays.” Speak of the devil. “I’m sure you get a winter break in the next week or so?”

    Zayn’d been so busy with juggling school, his father, and Liam that he never realized how fast time has passed. “Yeah?” he says. “I forgot all about that.”

    “So then you’ll come? We’ve all really missed you here. You may not feel that way... but we have.”

    And while, under normal circumstances, Zayn would’ve given her a plain old no, not now, he’s still reeling from the betrayal from the first time she left him, this time it’s different. Urgent. A perfect opportunity to escape and remain under the radar until the hype about him ceases (It’s not very mature of him to use her trust just for his own well-being, but it wasn’t very mature of her to ship him off against his will, was it?).

    Consider this payback. Besides, he misses his sisters to absolute death.

    “Sure,” he says. “I’ll come.”

    “Oh, love,” she breathes, only just containing her excitement. “That’s _wonderful_. I’ll be there to pick you up tomorrow afternoon, yeah?”

    “Okay.”

    “Missed you. Think about you everyday. And... I really am sorry it’s been terrible for you there.”

    Zayn almost doesn’t respond. “Yeah. No problem.”

    “I love you, Zayn. I don’t want you to forget that.” She doesn’t even wait for him to answer, like she knows he won’t. “We can talk more when I get there, yeah?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Bye. See you soon.”

    Even after the line goes dead, Zayn remains on the call, mouths on the television moving, but nothing coming out.

*

    _Zayn: I’ll be gone by tomorrow._

A single minute passes.

    _Liam Arse Pain:_ _How long?_

Zayn’s first thought is to deny further information, but quickly decides against being petty. Even if it may be (sort of) Liam’s fault that he’s forced to get the hell out of Dodge.

    _Zayn: until after New Years. talk later._

    He taps back over to his _N.H Trance_ e-mail, giving it one more cursory glance -- then presses the SEND button.

*

    “Finally on your break, mate?”

    Turning in his swivel chair, just barely ducking a makeup brush coming straight for his face, Liam meets eyes with a well-dressed Louis Tomlinson. It’s a little odd to see him in a sweater-vest and slacks that aren’t rolled up at the ankles, no matter how many times Liam’s told that he _has_ to look the part in professional settings. Which, of course, but. Liam’s still trying to sort it out.

    “Yeah,” he says. The makeup artist gives him a huff before giving his cheekbones a few more strokes with the brush, then saunters off. “I’m actually just about to start shooting again, though. They only gave me enough time to talk to m’mum and dad about holiday plans.”

    It was a bitter compromise. Liam shoots the Abercrombie and Fitch winter line for next year, and he’s allowed a mere two weeks off to spend time with his family back in his hometown. Free time to do absolutely whatever he wants (outside of London, of course) is rare, and his manager (Elise) is unforgiving, but he still won’t pass this job up for the world. This is his never-go-back-to-university _career_ ; quitting will never be an option. And he certainly has thought about quitting. A lot. More than a lot.

    Everyday, really.

    “Good, good,” Louis closes the backroom door behind him, settling onto the couch nearest to the assorted sparkling water and fruit platters. “Gives me _just_ enough time to ask you if you’ve seen the tabloids lately.”

    Liam grimaces. “I have, unfortunately. They’re real fucking quick with this shit, huh?”

    Louis gives a pathetic shrug, popping a pineapple piece into his mouth. “I told you,” he says around each chew. “I told you the paps were gonna have a field day with it.” Liam grimaces again. “Has Elise gotten in contact with you about it yet?”

    Liam returns to his reflection in the mirror, fixing the neck of the knitted sweater to busy his hands. “She told me to avoid any questions about it. Keep them guessing and such.”

    He’s greeted with a moment of silence. Then: “Speaking of keeping people guessing,” Louis grabs a water bottle off the table next and pries the top open. It sizzles loudly, carbonation bubbling at the surface. “What are you planning to do with that little... side toy of yours? Because you haven’t given me an inkling as to what you’ve decided.”

    And here comes the tough questions. Right before he has to go back on set and do this stupid fucking photoshoot, too. His feet are killing him, he’s been up since seven in the morning preparing for this, and they still haven’t even shot the ‘behind the scenes’ commercial yet -- but nope. Louis Tomlinson wants to hear all the juicy little details about something he’s been avoiding to answer even to _himself_.

    The answer is obvious. Liam should’ve given up that night, when Zayn ran off and had him chasing him down the street. This game of cat and mouse is silly, and fruitless, and Liam has no fucking clue what he’ll say if, by some rare chance, they _actually_ pursue a relationship and his manager and all of the UK wants to know about his love life. ‘Bad publicity if still publicity,’ Liam shamelessly told Zayn the night they were first papped together. But ... is it? Will this go over well with his management, with his fans? What if he loses his job over this?

    “Louis.”

    The force to his tone immediately catches Louis’ attention. Liam looks at him through the mirror.

    “I know you don’t like Zayn, for whatever reason. But, I need you t --”

    “‘For whatever reason’?” Louis asks, incredulous. “There’s a pretty big fucking reason, mate: he’s a fishy one. He said he wanted nothing to do with you, but suddenly he shows up at our dinner, acting like nothing’s ever happened? He’s after something. Whether it be your fame or your money, he wants something, and I don’t trust him. I’ve seen it all before.”

    Liam swivels around to look at him again. Trying his damndest to keep a leveled voice (Louis makes it difficult sometimes), he says, “Fine. You don’t trust him. I can’t control that, and hopefully that can be sorted out later, because, trust me Louis, he’s not like that.” He waits patiently while Louis gives him a dramatic eye roll, slumping back against the couch. “But I need your help with something serious. _Please_ , Louis. You’re the only one I can talk to about this.”

    Silence falls between them. They meet eyes in a stare-off — Liam giving Louis his most serious, stern look, and Louis’ eyebrows coming together in worry — before Louis crumbles one minute in and shakes his head with defeat, muttering, “Okay, Payno. You win.” He sits back up in the seat, smoothing his wrinkled, white button down. “What is it that you _so_ terribly have to confide in me about?”

    Liam didn’t know it’d be that easy. He falters, then starts, carefully, “Well. You’re my best friend, Louis. The absolute best.” Louis cringes and ducks his head, bashful. “And _because_ we’re best friends, I know it’s your job to be suspicious of the people who walk into my life. Zayn so far, _to you_ , has come off suspicious. Up to something. I know that. It’s weird that he’s gone from hating me to hanging out with us in the span of almost a month and a half.”

    “Weird is an understatement.”

    “Okay, yeah, I know, Louis. But I need you to do something for me, okay?”

    Louis finally looks up into Liam’s eyes, jaw tight as he shakes his head in disbelief. “I already know what’s about to come out of your mouth. You want me to stop being a dick for once and let you make your own shitty decisions, yeah?”

    A smile touches the corners of Liam’s mouth. “Spot on. Minus the ‘shitty decisions’ part. You can do this for me, can’t you? With all this crazy shit going on, I really need someone to just ... _support_ me, y’know? ‘Shitty’ decisions and all.”

    Liam can already see Louis’ cold persona begin to melt; Louis’ always been weak to compliments and sentimental conversation, this instance being no different. And when Louis says he’ll do something, he commits to it. That’s one of Liam’s favorite things about him: being supportive and _stubborn_ in his support, no matter what.

    “I have been kind of a serious dick to him,” Louis says, rubbing at a knot in his neck and wincing against it. “He looked like he was about to break down into tears, yeah?”

    Liam nods slowly. “Yeah. He was just frustrated, y’know? To be in an unfamiliar place, with strangers, and one of them is just _ripping_ into you is never easy.” Louis shoots him a guilt-ridden look, eyes giving the apology that his mouth won’t. “I’m not asking you to be his best friend from now on. Just be pleasant until I figure all this shit out. Okay?”

    Louis nods. “Okay. I’ll try my best.”

    “For my sake?”

    “For your sake.” Louis gets up from the couch, rolling his shoulders. He snatches his barely-touched carbonated water and pries the top off again. “Okay. I’ve got a lot of work to get done today, and I can’t waste anymore precious hours. You have fun with the rest of your shoot, and keep me in touch with any updates.”

    “Sure. Knock ‘em dead, and all that.” Liam turns back to his reflection and examines his makeup artist’s handiwork.

    “I should be saying that to _you_.” Louis pats his back twice before padding off. “Later.”

    “Later.”

    After a moment’s pause, the dressing room door clicks shut, leaving Liam to his own devices. He stares at his reflection, barely recognizing himself under the makeup, the fitted clothes, the five-year contract.

*

    Seeing his mum again is one hundred times more difficult than he ever thought it’d be. He expected to tense up in anger, to challenge her the moment he slipped into the passenger seat and was met with a tight hug and a kiss, to _demand_ answers and apologies, but. But instead, looking into her worn, tired face, he feels empty. Like all the fresh cuts on his thighs drained out emotion instead of blood, and there’s nothing left of him to give. He lets her pull him into her warm, familiar embrace, her mouth grazing his cheek as she hums, “ _Oh_ , love,” in that worried tone of hers.

    “You,” she starts, pulling back to look at him up and down. He recoils against the stare, pulls into himself. “you’ve lost more weight? You look so... _pale_. _Zayn_.” She’s looking at him, examining him like some project gone wrong, even as he turns away and stares out at the flat complex until it all turns into a blur of reds and browns. “Have you been eating? Why are you all bandaged up?” A pause. “Did he —?”

    “No,” Zayn says, forceful in his tone. She instantly silences. “he didn’t do anything to me. I’m fine.”

    “Then what are —?”

    “I _fell_.” He turns to look at her, a challenge in his expression. “I _fell_ , mum, okay? Can we please go now?”

    She doesn’t believe him. Of course she doesn’t believe him. But she retreats in her insistence for the moment, tells him, weakly, to buckle up, and turns on the car engine. Zayn rests his forehead against the window and closes his eyes, pretends he’s anywhere but in that small, confined space with his mum for several fucking hours, as she takes off down the street.

 

The flat is just as he remembers it, save for where all his things used to be in the living room. He steps over all his sisters’ shoes in the foyer, kicks his own off, and approaches, very carefully, into the space that he used to call home. The telly blasts music videos ‘round the corner.

    Trisha reaches to take his luggage, pulls it to her side. “Doniya moved out to stay on her uni’s campus. You’ll have to call her and do some catching up, yeah?” She touches his neck like she always used to; he slowly leans away.

    “Yeah,” Zayn answers, biting back tears. It hasn’t even been that long since he’s lived in London and all the nostalgia is punching him in the gut. The television on Safaa’s favorite channel, the shoes scattered in front of the door, the smell of cinnamon candles burning in one of the girls’ rooms — _everything_. It’s like life never stopped in here when he moved out. It’s like they’ve all moved on just fine without him.

    He finds Safaa in the kitchen. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and she’s cooking some rice on the range. Despite making no noise coming in, she immediately turns around, as if sensing his presence, and in an instant she goes from annoyed to smiling so hard the ends of her mouth nearly touch her ears. “Zayn?” she gasps.

    Zayn just smiles back, and to this Safaa leaps into his arms, squealing pleasantly. “Zayn! Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much!” He ducks his head into the crook of her neck, and, Christ. This time the tears are _really_ on the way, especially when her hollering attracts Waliyha from her room, and she quickly jumps in on the hug, as well.

    Their voices are a pleasant jumble of _welcome back_!’s and _listen to what’s happened since you’ve been gone_!’s and Zayn’s proper crying now, because — because _this_ is what makes life worth living. His sisters so genuinely happy to see him, so excited to fill him in on the thing’s he hasn’t had the privilege of seeing or experiencing, so content to just _be_ with him. They haven’t left him, haven’t betrayed him, always welcomed him into their cramped little world when they found him wandering, lost, amongst others. They’ve never forgotten about him, and sometimes Zayn just has to remember that.

    He forgets too easily.

    Zayn makes sure his face is dry before they pull back from the hug to look him in the face, and the conversation carries on for nearly half an hour before Trisha interrupts to inquire about dinner. “Oh,” Safaa says, slapping her forehead. “dinner. Right. It should be done now. Tonight is curry night.” She goes to the stove and begins stirring the jasmine rice, it’s lovely aroma filling up the flat.

    Zayn smiling so hard it hurts. “I love curry,” he goes to put an arm around Safaa’s shoulders. “You’re cooking now?”

    “We can’t eat takeaway every night,” Waliyha interjects, going to get some plates and cups from the cabinets. “so Safaa and I switch out making dinner every night.” She places each plate and cup at the bar, setting some silverware beside every set up. “Mum is working longer hours now and doesn’t have the time to cook.”

    Zayn looks over at Trisha while his sisters move around him, finishing off the dinner preparations. Trisha meets his eyes, smiles tiredly, then quickly turns away, goes to sit where Waliyha guides her to. He’s still upset, feels rationally wronged for how she just tossed him out without warning, but he loves her. Loves her so much, and to see her so worn out, constantly working and never having time to cook dinner or rest or just sit back and relax kills him.

    She’s worried about him. She’s been worried about him for months now, when he’s been avoiding her calls and ducking out whenever Yaser insists he picks up the phone for once. And Zayn has been cruel to her, selfish, not wanting to talk to her when all she wants to know is if he’s safe, making high scores, eating well. She’s been thinking of him all this time and all he’s been thinking of is how to disappear for good.

    This thought follows him through the rest of dinner, while he’s cuddled up on the couch with his sisters watching game shows and shouting answers at the telly screen, while he’s taking a long, hot shower and pretending his scarred up body otherwise doesn’t exist. And, _fuck_. All Trisha’s ever wanted out of him is honesty. For him to confide in her when he’s not feeling well. For him to crawl into her arms for protection, tell him everything he’s always been holding in. The things he’s so deathly afraid of letting out.

    Zayn greets his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror. He barely recognizes himself under the dead, brown eyes, the jagged scars, the subsequent fog inside his head.

*

    He spends the days with his sisters and the nights with his mum. And it truly is like day and night: Safaa and Waliyha are bubbling with energy, making him laugh so hard his nose scrunches up and eyes go small, and the conversation never seems to end; Trisha, on the other hand, is more quiet, more mellow. Their conversation lags, sometimes for hours at a time, and they watch the telly together until Trisha retires to her room or Zayn passes out on his makeshift bed. But she always looks like she wants to say something, always has her eyes flickering from his face to the television and back again. The words just never come to her.

    They don’t celebrate Christmas, but when it comes, Zayn cooks them all breakfast, lunch, and dinner. His mum works on Christmas, unfortunately, so he spends most of the holiday closed up in the flat with Safaa and Waliyha, watching a marathon of Disney movies in Waliyha’s room.

    They’re more than halfway into the fourth movie (The Princess and the Frog), and it’s nearly midnight when Zayn stirs from his spot on the bed, finds the girls on both side of him sleeping soundly. He slowly sits up, bed creaking beneath him, and rubs at his eyes, vision slowly coming into focus.

    The entire flat is banished into darkness. That’s what Zayn concludes before he ambles quietly into the living room and finds that the kitchen light is, indeed, on, and Trisha’s standing there in her light blue scrubs, heating up some leftovers in the microwave. When his foot steps on the wooden floor and causes a soft creak, she turns to look at him, and he freezes like a deer caught in headlights.

    “Zayn,” Trisha says.

    “Hey,” Zayn answers, embarrassed for no reason. “I was just. We were watching movies and we all ended up falling asleep. Thought I’d sleep in my own. Bed.”

    Trisha nods at him. “That’s fine. Glad you guys had a nice time today.”

    Zayn feels awkward for seemingly no reason at all, his body tensing up like something’s about to happen, and it’s preparing him for the impact. He turns away from her and goes to his bed, spreads out the blankets and fluffs up his pillows, anxious. The microwave is beeping when he’s about to lie on his bed, but Trisha appears from behind the couch with her food, and she looks at him with expectant eyes. He freezes mid-crouch.

“Zayn,” she says, but this time it’s not in a greeting.

He doesn’t move from where he’s crouching.

“I told them not to ask you about it, because I wanted to have a private conversation with you myself,” Trisha continues, voice soft, careful, just as the look on her face is. She moves to sit on the couch a respectable distance from him, then places her tupperware full of leftovers on the coffee table. Zayn’s heart won’t stop beating out of his chest. “I need you to talk to me, okay? I don’t want to lose you like I lost — ” A startling pause. “ — like I lost your father.”  

    Now Zayn’s listening, but his throat is on fire, and his hands are starting to shake, because he knows what she’s going to ask, and he knows he won’t be able to lie to her. Not now, not anymore. Yaser is easy, because he doesn’t feel like he owes him anything but eternal unhappiness; his sisters are more difficult, but not as bad, because he feels as if he owes it to them that he doesn’t toss his troubles on them; but Trisha. She always knew to take extra care for him, to look out for him like no one else can. He can’t lie about how he’s feeling anymore. He just can’t.

    “Why are your arms covered like that, Zayn?”

    He just stares. Stares as she gives him that heavy, stern, but worried look. He stares like he can’t understand what was just said, like he doesn’t have the capacity to talk back. And it feels like he actually can’t. The truth sits on the tip of his tongue, absolutely gagging to come out, but — _he can’t_. His body is physically shutting down with it, refusing to let his brain perform as it pleases; alarms are going off left and right, ringing loudly between his ears.

    Zayn thinks it’s all just in his head, until Trisha’s looking at him in shock, then reaches out to hold his hand, tight. “It’s okay, Zayn. Breathe. It’s okay. You’re safe with me.”

    _Safe with her_. He’s safe with her. She’s never hurt him — never meant to — never invalidated his feelings. He can trust her. He can trust her. He has to trust _somebody_ , even if he can’t even trust himself. One tear slips loose, then several others, then he’s crying silently, nodding up and down wildly until Trisha pulls him into her embrace.

    This time, he doesn’t pull away.

    “I,” he gasps, every single word more difficult to get out than the last. “to myself. I — did it to myself.” Her grip around his waist tightens, and he rests his head over her shoulder, breathes in her coconut shampoo.

    “To yourself?” she asks, so quiet he barely catches it over his sniffling. Zayn forces himself to pull away from her, even as she tries to keep a hold on him, and rolls up his sleeves. He doesn’t stop to think about what the fuck he’s about to do (he knows if he does, he’ll never persuade himself to do it, knows he’ll just shut down and run away), just starts ripping at the gauze around his arms with all his strength, rips until he gets down to the scarred skin, just where the _KILL ME_ puffs out, bold, from all the rest.

    Trisha loses it instantly. The only time Zayn’s seen her as distraught as this was way, way back, when Yaser tossed his cup across the dining room and made Safaa cry. Then, her face was bright red, eyes wet and voice rough with anger. He and his sisters hid out in Doniya’s room while Trisha’s screeches carried probably several miles down the street, never came out until they were sure Yaser left.

    But, it’s different this time. There’s no one to be angry at, nothing to be angry _about_ ; all there is are Zayn’s scars and the solemn darkness of the flat. And so Trisha loses her composure, cries out in agony and grabs at her own shoulders in a devastated self-embrace. Zayn’s begging her to lower her voice, whispering, “ _Please_ , mum, please, please, please,” while sobbing bitterly, but nothing works. He’s pushed her over the edge.

    “Zayn,” she shrieks, and at this Safaa and Waliyha come rushing out of the bedroom, alert and looking instantly for the threat.

    All they find is Zayn’s back to them, sleeves hurriedly shoved back down over his arms, and Trisha weeping as if someone has died. Though, perhaps someone has died. Zayn’s felt dead for years now, and, at this moment, he wishes it were true. He wants to die. He wants to fucking die. More now than ever before, he wants to fucking die.

    “What happened?” Safaa screams, just as Zayn leaps from his spot on the floor, sprints towards the front door, and barrels out into the bitter cold of winter.

*

    Out here, there’s no Early Morning Radio. Just the sound of the wind whipping through the trees, and Zayn’s sobs. It’s weird — and funny — to think of Niall now, of all times, but he does. He thinks of Niall’s calming voice, how his gentle beats got him through some really fucking awful times. He thinks of him so that his mind doesn’t convince him to walk in the street until an unsuspecting car slams into him.

It’s also kind of weird — and funny — how quickly Trisha finds him. One moment he’s sitting at the curb alone, just wailing into the wind because he knows no one can hear him, and the next Trisha’s sat beside him, hand wrapped tightly over his. “Mum,” is all Zayn says, and Trisha pulls him onto her shoulder.

“It’s because you’re there,” she says. “Isn’t it? It’s because you’re at your father’s?”

    Zayn can only shake his head.

    “Talk to me, Zayn. You need to _talk to me_.” She’s fighting a new onslaught of tears, bites out, “I can’t help you if I don’t understand.”

    “I know,” is all Zayn says in return.

    Five, too long minutes of silence falls between them before she pulls him to his feet, refuses to let go as she leads him back towards the flat.

*

    When Yaser left for good, Trisha struggled to keep what was left of her family together. She was terribly depressed — they all knew it — but what was important to her, over everything else, were her children. Zayn, for so damn long, refused to see it for what it really was: she wanted to protect them. All of them. She wanted Doniya to go to university, wanted Waliyha and Safaa to keep up their grades, wanted Zayn to keep practicing Urdu and Arabic despite the fact that Yaser had abandoned him. She wanted to fill in that gap, the gap Zayn thought he had to fill. They were doing nothing but overcompensating, all this time.

    So he doesn’t tell her, not yet. There’s too much going on, her emotions are too heightened, and, really, she’s seen enough as it is. And she can see it in his face, that he doesn’t want to talk about it, but she insists on therapy anyway, on making him promise not to do _it_ anymore, to just call her or go on a walk or take a nap if it comes to that point. And.

    And that’s that. For that night, at least. Because the day after Christmas comes, and Trisha brings another wave of problems, her red, puffy eyes _always_ trained on his covered arms, always finding it no matter how Zayn tries to shield it from her view. “Zayn,” she’ll whisper to him, while Safaa and Waliyha are busy doing something else, and her fingers touch his shoulder so lightly it’s as if she’s afraid she’ll break him. “does your father know?”

    “ _No_ ,” Zayn bites out, giving her a warning stare. “and you won’t tell him. If you love me, you won’t tell him.”

    “Zayn,” she starts, on another day. “do you need me to contact some therapists for you? Are you depressed?”

    “No,” Zayn answers, clockwork. “I’m fine. I can do it by myself. I’m okay.” He pretends she never asked the second question.

    The following morning, just before she heads off to work — “Zayn. Is there something you want to talk to me about? Somehow at all I can help you?” Today, she’s sobbing. A tremor travels down her body in waves.

    “Please don’t cry,” Zayn begs, tears biting at his own blurry gaze. “I’ve got this. I’m okay.” He pulls her into a tight embrace. “I’ll. I’ll tell you one day. I promise.”

    There’s more tears. More guilt. After work, Trisha comes to lay down beside him, weeping and brushing his hair as he pretends to sleep. She’s blaming herself. She always blames herself, for all their problems. She blamed herself when Yaser left, when Yaser lost it, when her family came apart. And now she blames herself for the pain Zayn’s caused to no one but himself. He shouldn’t have confided in her, he thinks. He shouldn’t have told her a damn fucking thing.

    But now it’s too late. For the rest of his stay, he pretends to smile and laugh, pretends not to notice Trisha’s tired, heavy eyes always on him.

*

    On his final day, Zayn’s head is spinning. He hasn’t cut for almost a week now, a new record, and while the progress he’s making should make him feel ecstatic, he just feels. Wrecked. Like he hasn’t slept properly in days. And he doesn’t think he has; Trisha has always been there, carding her fingers through his messy fringe, her whimpers all he can hear inside his head. He can still hear it even now, the absolute terror in her voice as she hollered _Zayn_ the night he showed her his only secret.

    It’s not a secret anymore.

    So he calls Liam. He doesn’t know why, but he’s sat on his luggage outside the flat complex, waiting for his mum to come out to drive him back to London, and he’s itching to talk to somebody who doesn’t fucking depress him. Liam is the only person to come to mind. He picks up the phone midway through the second ring.

    “Zayn?” he asks, sounding absolutely shocked.

    “Liam?” Zayn answers, voice trembling. He doesn’t know why he feels like crying, hearing that voice. Maybe because it’s the only voice that doesn’t speak to him like he’s a ticking time bomb. “Hey.”

    “Hey.” Liam’s voice goes soft. “Are you alright? Where are you?”

    Zayn shuts his eyes tightly, swallows the lump in his throat, and opens them again, street coming into view. “At my mum’s. About to head back to London. Is it safe to come back yet?”

    There’s some shuffling on Liam’s line before his voice returns, closer than before. “Yeah, yeah, it should be. The tabloids move on quick. They’re talking about some pop singer’s meltdown, or summat.”

    “Okay. Good.”

    They both fall quiet at once. Zayn dips his head back and stares at the cloudy sky, squinting against the wind slapping against his face, before he tightens his grip on his cell, says, “You asked me a little while ago.”

    Another pause. “What?”

    Zayn inhales in shudders. “You asked me a while ago why I always have new bandages around my arms, just before you kissed me.”

    “Oh.” Liam clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

    “Yeah,” Zayn repeats, shaky with tears. “I just. I just told my mum why. And she’s inside there, probably crying, blaming herself. And she doesn’t want me to go back to London. She wants me back at home, so she can keep her eyes on me to make sure I don’t have new bandages on my arms ever again. And I just —?” He pauses to exhale, whimper, wipe at his face with his free hand. “ — I feel like the worst person alive right now? Like, I know I’m fucked up? But now that my mum knows it, it feels that more real?”

    “Zayn —”

    “She doesn’t know everything, but she knows the worst of it. She knows I can’t fucking handle my emotions. She knows I’m weak, and that’s the worst part about it: you try so hard to be — _God_ — to be fucking strong, strong, because she needs someone strong right now, but I can’t?”

    “ _Please_ , Zay —”

    “You told me to think about it, and give you an answer. That’s why I called. So, I think I’m ready to tell you what I’ve decided now.”

    Liam’s stunned into a moment of quiet. “You can’t _possibly_ have thought of an answer after all of this. There’s no way I can accept your answer when you’re like this, love.”

    “ _Why_?” Zayn counters, now crying angry tears. “You can’t _possibly_ take my answer now because I’m crying? Well, _fuck_ the tears, Liam. I know what I want, and it’s —”

    “No,” Liam hisses into the phone. There’s some hurried movement, like clothes being dropped, pulled on, forgotten somewhere in what probably is his fucking mansion bedroom. “don’t fucking do this right now. You need to talk to your mum, and make sure she understands that you want to be strong for the two of you, and you need to learn to depend on her more, alright?”

    Zayn stands up and ditches his luggage at the front door, laughing bitterly. “What the fuck do you know about depending on her? You don’t know her. You don’t know _me_.”

    “But I want to. I want to know all about you, Zayn. I want you to call me, _like this_ , when you’re feeling like shit and need somebody to talk to. I want to know what’s going on inside that head of yours, _like this_ , and to do everything in my power to make you feel better. I want to see you, right now.”

    Zayn covers half his face with his hand, sniffling and blinking back tears. “You haven’t even heard my answer,” he whispers.

    Liam’s voice falls in an instant.

    “Do you wanna know now?”

    Hesitating, Liam says, quietly, “Okay. Yeah. I want to know. Tell me.”

    Zayn drags his hand from his face now, turning around just as his mum steps out of the house and turns to lock the front door. “Don’t,” he begins. “you _dare_ fuck this up, Liam Payne.”

*


End file.
